The Great Whomping of 2019
by HelsinkiAngels
Summary: Twister gets hurt. In about a million different ways, in a million different scenarios. This is whompology: The study of pain, and sometimes of comfort.
1. Foreword

I absolutely hate forewords. Now that I find myself coming to the insane decision to publish, however, I realize I absolutely cannot publish this without some kind of HAZMAT label on the cover.

Before all else: I own nothing but my mind, some plot bits, and some OCs.

First: **TW**. Most of these stories contain one or more depictions of **extremely graphic, distressing and downright violent and disgusting scenarios**. Some of them even contain one or more depictions of extremely cringey writing. Honestly, if you're squeamish, or you've got some stuff going on in your life that doesn't pair well with triggers, I ask that you think carefully before deciding to read. The M label exists for a good reason.

Please also remember that this is _fiction_. Be a critic; be disgusted; be so mad about a topic or a character's language that you can't think straight. But leave me in peace to place characters in grave situations in a fantasy, because that's what fantasy is for: Exploring that which, all hell willing, may never come to pass in reality, for anyone.

Second: There is no organization, or completeness, to anything in here. There never will be. I have never shared these before, nor brought them to another to edit. These were written for me, that I might better explore and perfect the world of absolutely destroying characters with injury or illness. Some of them are repetitive... _most_ of them are repetitive. Variations on a theme are common. And far too many of these come from direct, personal experience. It's an experiment - one that I'm sharing with the world, without mercy... because I can, basically.

I do not know or understand why the eldritch gods bestowed upon me a desire to write Twister like this. I know that Twister is a puppet; often times, he isn't even written in-character. He's here to walk us through pain and suffering, and that's about it. He is not the first I have written about like this, and I doubt he will be the last.

Hey, make no mistake: This is still Rocket Power. Everyone else, I try to keep in-character, and the settings tend to revolve around sports or the daily lives of the Rocket Gang. Mostly. There's a bit of AU lying around in here in places, I think. Mind your step.

Good luck.


	2. Chapter 1

"Dad? Something's wrong with Twister."

Ray was intimately familiar with the effects of age; when Reggie and Otto had been kids, they had almost driven him insane with their antics, and were directly responsible for many of the gray hairs on his head. Now that they were teens, it was ten times the strain.

He wouldn't have it any other way. Most days.

"What do you mean, something's wrong?" Ray asked his son warily. "Have you boys been drinking again? I warned you, Otto-"

"No!" Otto denied angrily. "Dad, come on, focus! I think Twist's really sick or something. He won't wake up."

"_What?!_"

Ray shot right up out of his seat, his heart rate skyrocketing. Twister may not have been his son, but he, along with Sam, was inseparable from Reggie and Otto. They were like sons to Ray, and like any parent would be, he was suddenly frightened for Twister. He bolted right past Otto, and nearly toppled a freshly-awoken Reggie. He paused only to help her recover her balance, but had no ears for her confused calls, as he made straight for Otto's room.

Twister lay bundled in blankets on the air bed, where he'd settled down for the night. Ray stumbled over discarded clothes and skateboard parts to reach him, and with a firm hand, he shook the kid by the shoulder.

"Twister?" he called urgently. "Hey. Twister? MAURICE. Wake up, buddy."

"I already tried that!" Otto snapped from the doorway, where he and Reggie both peered in. "I told you, something's wrong with him."

"What do you mean, wrong with him?" Reggie asked. "Dad?"

Ray still gave no reply, frowning down at Twister. Listening and watching, he was relieved to see that the kid was still breathing, at least, though there was a tightness to each breath. As Ray pulled back the covers and took Twister's pulse, he immediately noticed two things: Twister's heart rate was shallow and fast, and his skin felt hot and clammy. A second attempt to rouse him only resulted in an insensible mumble, followed by a rattling wheeze in his breathing.

"Reggie, call 911," Ray said quietly.

Reggie stared a moment, shocked and pale, but retreated from the doorway a second later, without further question. Otto, just as startled by the declaration, came into his room, crouching by the other side of the bed and eyeing his best friend uncertainly.

"Wh-why does he need 911?" he stammered.

"I just wanna get him checked out," Ray reassured. "Just to make sure he's okay. It's not normal for him not to wake like this."

"But what's wrong with him?"

"I don't know!" Ray all but yelled, before checking his worry-driven rage. "I'm sorry. I don't know. Once the medics get here, they'll be able to tell us more. Okay?"

Otto bit his lower lip, and in the silence that followed, he, too, heard the strain in Twister's breathing. "That doesn't sound so good."

"No," Ray agreed, pulling the covers back a little further, away from Twister's chest. "Hey, do him a favor, will you? Go to my medicine cabinet, and find a blue container called 'Vick's'. It might help him breathe a little easier."

This time, prompted by command and fear, Otto didn't wait around. He darted out of his room like a man on a mission, leaving Ray to tend to Twister. Ray wasn't alone long; Reggie had returned in short order, the phone pressed to her ear.

"They want to know what his symptoms are," she relayed.

"Unresponsive, possibly unconscious," Ray reported. "Shallow and fast heartbeat, fever, and a rattle in his breathing."

Reggie repeated the information to the dispatcher quickly and clearly, and Ray couldn't help but feel proud of her for her ability to keep calm. She was clearly afraid for Twister, as well, but her voice stayed steady.

"Seven minutes," she told her father, hanging up.

"Good. Well done, Rocket Girl."

"Poor Twist. He seemed a little quiet yesterday. I didn't think it would get like this, though."

"Sometimes, these things set in pretty fast," said Ray, though he wasn't sure whether this was true.

Otto returned then, bearing a small, round tub of vapor ointment. He'd barely gotten in the door before Ray snatched it out of his hands and opened it. Both teens wrinkled their noses at the powerful, stinging odor of the medicine, and both made a face as Ray dug out a wad of semi-transparent jelly.

"What _is_ that stuff, anyway?" Otto asked.

"It'll help open up his airways a little," Ray explained, applying the gel to Twister's chest and neck. "There we go. Get you breathing a little better."

Sure enough, whatever trouble Twister had been having getting air was eased significantly the moment the vapor was applied. Ray checked his pulse again, then startled, as he saw the boy's eyes had opened a little.

"Twister?" he called urgently, "Can you hear me? It's Raymundo. Help's on the way, buddy."

Twister gave no reply, and didn't even seem to see Ray; his eyes were glazed-over and far from aware, and after a few moments, they fluttered closed again.


	3. Chapter 2

"Twist? Hello, Earth to Twister!"

Otto rolled his eyes, before marching over to his best friend. Twister didn't seem to notice his approach; he stood absently, camera hanging by his side, his eyes unfocused.

"Dude!" Otto waved a gloved hand in front of his face. "_Twister_. We've been calling you for like five whole minutes. Are you ready for the shot or not?"

Finally, Twister blinked, pulled sharply from whatever reverie he'd been off on. As he noticed how close Otto was, he flinched a little, and staggered. Sam and Reggie exchanged looks, and followed Otto's suit, trotting over to Twister.

"Hey, are you okay?" Reggie asked cautiously.

"Yeah, I'm okay," Twister reassured them, smiling dazedly. "Just felt super tired a minute. I told you college would suck my brains out!"

"There has to be a brain there to begin with for anything to get sucked out," Sam deadpanned. "We're ready to film when you are, dude."

"Okay, go for it, guys."

Satisfied that their cameraman was back on point, they resumed their places, boards at the ready. This trick would involve a bit of fancy coordination, but for the Rocket gang – experienced since childhood with all things skating and beyond – it posed little real challenge.

At Twister's shout, they began, spurred on by the thrilled encouragement of their friend, and by a few cheers from casual onlookers – Shoobie and local alike. The first half of the trick went well, until Sam, ever true to his old title, lost his balance and fell. Reggie and Otto stopped with considerably more grace, and helped Sam up out of the bowl. He grimaced sheepishly.

"Sorry, guys. Got a little rusty over the semester."

"It's okay, Sammy," said Reggie. "It's not supposed to go perfectly the first time. We'll just try again."

"I don't wanna spend all day on this," Otto argued. "You've got this, Squid. I know you'll do your best. But don't waste time."

"Thanks, I think. Shall we start-"

"Excuse me! Hello? Is he your friend?"

A frightened call burst from one of the remaining onlookers – a Shoobie, by her getup. The trio stared at her, uncomprehending, but she didn't seem to mind their standoffish confusion. She was pointing behind them worriedly, and in fact, they noticed several other people had also started doing the same, as a murmur of alarm went up.

Otto was the first to turn. At first, he didn't see what was wrong, and wondered if maybe these people had just collectively lost their minds. When he finally spotted the problem, however, all thought of dismissing them went from his mind, and he gave a cry of shock.

"Twister?!"

He was already running to his friend by the time Sam and Reggie had picked up on his distress. Otto ignored them, his eyes trained on Twister.

Twister was no longer on his feet. He lay just beyond the lip of the skate bowl, sprawled on the ground, and utterly motionless. His camera lay beside him, dropped when he had fallen. As Otto came to a halt and knelt beside him, he also noticed a small, quickly-forming welt on the side of Twister's head, where he'd hit the ground.

"Twist?" Otto called, "Hey, man, come on. You okay? Look at me!"

Twister's eyes were open, if barely – something that Otto took as a good sign, for at least he was conscious. More worrying, however, was the unfocused look in those heavily-lidded eyes; Twister might not have bothered to open them at all, for all that he was present. Otto waved a hand slowly in front of his friend's face, anxious for a response. A second later, Reggie and Sam crowded in, just as fearful for him.

"He's out of it," Otto reported. "Looks like he hit his head or something..."

"I'll get Conroy," Reggie said decisively. "He's got a phone."

"Phone? Why would-"

"He might need medical attention," Sam explained, for Reggie's lack of answer. He put his fingers to Twister's pulse, and frowned. "His heart rate is crazy fast."

"Oh, man. Oh, crap... he's gonna be okay, though, right? He just fell. Happens all the time. Look, he's even awake."

"I'm no doctor, Otto, but I don't think that counts as awake. It's possible he just passed out."

"But his eyes are open!"

"Um... try not to be alarmed, but sometimes, when people are unconscious, or recovering from unconsciousness, their eyes can still be open. I don't think he can hear us."

"...that's creepy."

"Yeah, kinda."

Sam shook his head for focus, and shortly after that, Twister gave a sudden, weak groan, shifting. He blinked slowly, and seemed to be trying to speak, but still didn't quite seem able to see his friends, who leaned over him in anticipation. Despite their repeated calls and attempts to coax him awake, however, he didn't respond.

As footsteps from the direction of Conroy's office came running in their direction, things became unexpectedly worse.

Twister cried out suddenly, the sound uncontrolled and most certainly born of pain. As he did, his back spasmed and arched, and his limbs went rigid, while his eyes rolled right back. Otto shrieked, drawn into panic, but Sam – ever the rational one – drew in closer, alarmed. He glanced back only once, to wave over the approaching Conroy and Reggie, and then gave his undivided attention to his injured friend, reaching with both hands to cushion behind Twister's head.

"What are you doing?" Otto demanded. "What the hell is happening to him?!"

"What's happened?" Conroy asked, equally as impatient for information. "Reggie tells me Twister was injured?"

"He's having a seizure!" Sam barked, his voice shakier than he'd have liked to admit. "Please, help. Don't hold him down, we just have to let it progress, but we need something soft. Jackets, stuff like that. Hurry!"

There were no more questions. Lacking jackets on this hot California day, Conroy, Sam and Otto all contributed their shirts, instead, for it was abundantly clear now why they were needed: Twister had fallen into violent convulsions, and had Sam not placed the collection of shirts beneath his head, he'd have struck it, hard, against the pavement below.


	4. Chapter 3

Tito would never admit it to Raymundo, but he secretly enjoyed closing up the Shack on his own. It gave him time to himself, to maybe reflect on the day in peace, or even reflect on the flavor of a burger that somehow found its way into his stomach. True, tonight was one of those nights that required more work than relaxation, but he didn't mind.

It had been rough, these past few years, what with Otto abandoning college in pursuit of sports, and Reggie encountering heavy competition to her magazine business. As if that weren't enough, Mrs. Dullard's neighborhood snooping, 'check-ins', and general busybody tendencies had evolved into a whole new monster, now that Sam was also in university. It had all indirectly put strain on Ray, and since Tito was so close to him and the others, he felt that pressure, too.

Maybe things would have been more manageable, had it not been for the Rodriguez family.

Tito sighed heavily, crushing down empty boxes to add to a growing pile. Raoul and Sandy's funeral had seen attendance from nearly everyone in Ocean Shores, though even the massive support of the town couldn't truly counter the horror of their unexpected deaths, or the vacancy they left behind. Yes, that loss had hurt everyone, in some way or another, but none more so than their sons.

Both had fallen in different directions. Last Tito had heard, Lars was living in Los Angeles, stuck in a nothing projects apartment, and was heavily into drugs and wild scenes. He had ceased contact with anyone in Ocean Shores – even his little brother.

Twister, once one of the strongest, happiest lights in the world, had withdrawn, and become a shell of his former self. He'd never really been the brightest spark around, but nowadays, there was a terrible wisdom in his eyes – wisdom that was born out of pain and emptiness. Tito couldn't recall when Twister had stopped talking; only that the silence was deep and uncanny, and heartbreaking to experience.

Otto, Sam and Reggie had all done their best to help their friend, and Tito and Ray did what they could for him, too. It had been favorable, initially, that the kids had all attended Ocean Springs University together, and their proximity meant that they had the power to assist. Time and circumstance changed, however, as they often do; Sam was in heavy pursuit of a computer science degree, and with Otto gone, and Reggie trapped under her workload, Twister grew more and more isolated.

His grades fell precipitously after a point, as did his social life. When he'd started to come dangerously close to academic suspension, Ray and Tito decided to speak with him – or, rather, to him. Eventually, on their advice, Twister took a leave of absence from his once-promising path to a videography career, and returned to Ocean Shores to live in a small apartment.

Tito allowed himself a wan smile at the memories of helping Twister move into his new place. The kid was far from better, but once he'd settled in, he'd established a sort of routine – one that gave them all hope that their friend wasn't all out of reach to them. He spent most of his days on the beach, just sitting in the sand and looking out to sea. At sunset, he would stop in at the Shore Shack, and Tito would bring him a milkshake.

The old cook had learned how to deal with Twister's silence. At first, he would constantly speak to the boy, regardless of lack of response; it was an attempt to demonstrate to him that he could trust Tito. After experience, and a lot of subtle reading of nuance and expression, Tito learned to share the silence with him, as a companion, without discomfort from either party. Tito never stopped believing Twister could regain some of himself, but he remained respectful of the distance.

He shook his head, trying to clear out the clutter of reverie that had made him halt in his task. Satisfied that the boxes were no longer taking up so much space, he turned his attention to the garbage bags by the back door, and began hauling them out to the alleyway dumpster. He disposed of them, and was about to turn to go back in, when a curious sound caught his good ear. He wasn't sure what it was about this noise that made him stop in his tracks; he just knew he suddenly felt on-edge, as if something weren't quite right.

Alert, he squinted around the darkened alley, trying to rack his brain and recall whether any of the familiar shadows seemed out of place. He kept his ears wide open, trying with all his might to catch the sound again. What had it been?

When his unspoken query was answered, he knew why his gut had cried warning.

One of the shadows shifted. The unexpected movement frightened the life out of Tito, but as he staggered back a few steps, his mind and eyes eventually caught up with reality, granting him recognition of what, exactly, he was looking at.

Twister Rodriguez was sitting against the far wall, not ten paces away from Tito. The lack of light had hidden him, at first, but now that Tito had spotted him, he still wondered how he missed the boy in the first place.

It wasn't Twister's presence alone that was particularly alarming; rather, it was the way he was sitting, in a position that didn't quite match the profile of someone resting. Tito advanced again slowly, frowning, and his eyes widened as he identified the last pieces of the puzzle: blood, and bonds. Twister wasn't just sitting there; his wrists had been bound behind his back, and he'd just about had the life beaten out of him.

There was no more hesitation. Tito was at his side in seconds, kneeling as best his tired joints would allow him. He reached out for Twister, operating mostly on automatic impulse, and his fingers found their way to the tightly-wound duct tape wrapped around the kid's mouth. Twister, still conscious, flinched violently at the contact, as if he were only now aware that Tito was so close. He was conscious, yes, but barely.

"Easy, little cuz," Tito soothed. "It's your old pal, Tito. Lemme get you outta this tape, huh?"

Twister raised his head shakily, staring up at him with swollen, half-lidded eyes that displayed little else but animal terror. Every muscle in his body was tense with pain and fear, as if he expected Tito to lunge and strike him at any moment. Again, came that sound – a short, muffled, almost insensible cry through the tape. Tito freed his mouth, throwing the torn tape aside, and began reaching to unbind the boy's wrists.

Apparently, this was not an ideal action. Twister responded with an outright _howl_, and began trying to get away from Tito, though his body was far too weak to allow him to do anything except slump further over. Tito felt his insides melt when he saw fresh tears making their way down Twister's face.

"Hey, hey," he whispered, "It's okay, bruddah. You're gonna be okay. I just wanna untie you."

Twister fell quiet again, but if his head-to-toe trembling was anything to go by, he was still scared out of his mind. When Tito had finally freed his wrists, he moved again, reflexively reaching to grip the buckle of his pants. Here, his fingers – bloodied and bruised, like the rest of him – held like grim death, as if to let go would spell disaster.

This odd defense puzzled Tito, until he began to take in the way Twister shrunk in on himself, keeping his knees locked closed. When understanding dawned on Tito, his insides went from melted, to frozen solid. Clarity slammed into him with titanic force: there wasn't just dread in Twister's eyes, nor just fear or hurt. There was shame and humiliation, too, of a kind so profoundly awful that Tito simply knew, right there and then, that something far worse than simple assault had come down on his young friend.

…

Ray had promised himself he wouldn't answer the phone tonight. It was a special occasion, after all: rare were the days now, when both his kids were home. Although he longed for Noelani's company, he was content that she was safe and well on her Hawaii holiday, and he knew she'd be happy to hear that Reggie and Otto had stopped by.

At least, he hoped she would be happier than he was right now. The phone rang again, for the third time tonight. Ray sighed, and gave his kids an apologetic look.

Reggie smiled back. "It's okay, dad. Sounds like it might be important."

"Here," Otto paused the movie, "Don't sweat it, Raymundo."

"I won't be a minute," Ray promised, shooting up from the sofa.

He made it to the phone in good time, readying himself with a prepared speech for whoever was on the other line. If it was Noelani, he wouldn't need it, but he doubted she'd be calling so late.

"Rocket residence," he said testily.

"Bruddah, I'm so sorry to call you," came an urgent voice.

"Tito? You know the kids are home tonight. What's going on that couldn't wait til morning? Is something up with the Shack?"

"No, the Shack's fine, but we got a problem. I just got outta the hospital. It's Twister."

"What?! What do you mean? Is he okay?"

"Short answer, no. He's not. Poor little cuz was beaten up and left outside the Shack, and... ah, I don't know if it's my place to say what else, but he got hurt bad. Point is, I need to find him a place tonight where he can rest easy and be safe. I would keep him here if I had space, but he needs a bed, and I don't wanna leave him on his own."

"You want to bring him here?" Ray asked. "We can set up a room for him. I'm with you, man – don't much like the idea of him on his own in that apartment tonight."

At this, Otto and Reggie, catching on, were suddenly alert and serious. TV forgotten, they left the sofa and came to Ray, listening in, while Ray set the loudspeaker.

"I'm real sorry about this, Raymundo. I know you had a fun night planned with the other little cuzes."

"Don't worry about it. Family is important – and as far as I'm concerned, he's family. How soon will you be here?"

"Fifteen minutes, maybe. I still gotta convince him he's gonna be safe with me, let alone you guys. See you as soon as I can."

They said quick goodbyes, and Ray lowered the phone slowly, shutting his eyes with a tired sigh. Otto and Reggie had enough restraint to give him a moment – but it was only a moment.

"Dad," Otto said pointedly, "What's going on? It's Twist, isn't it? What happened?"

"Tito found him outside the Shack," Ray explained. "He was assaulted."

"WHAT?!" both siblings cried.

"They just got out of the hospital. Now, I know tonight was supposed to be just for us, but Tito and I think it would be better if-"

"Better if Twister stays with us," Reggie finished firmly. "I agree. Rocket Boy?"

"Duh. But what the hell do you mean, 'assaulted'? Who would want to do that to him?! He's already... he's already hurt enough."

"I wish I knew more," said Ray, "But hopefully, Tito can fill us in when he gets here. Would you guys mind setting up the guest room? If you want, I'll call Sammy and let him know what's going on."

Agreement was unanimous. Ray picked up the phone again, trying to recall the number to Sam's dorm at the university. In the meantime, Reggie and Otto shot up to the guest room, to begin laying out bedding. The minute they were out of range of their father, they began their discussion.

"I'm going to find out who did this," Otto muttered through clenched teeth, jamming a pillow into its case. "I'll kill them for hurting him!"

"That probably won't solve much, but I'm with you, for once," said Reggie. "I know you haven't been around, but you've always been closer to him. Do you know anyone who might do something like this? 'Cause I don't."

Otto shook his head. "Lars, maybe... but I don't think even he'd go that far against his own brother. And he's not even here anyway. Everyone else seems super sympathetic – not people who would attack Twister."

"Maybe... maybe he could tell us who it was."

They both fell awfully quiet at this. Despite their best efforts to get him to do so, Twister still hadn't regained his speech. Neither would directly admit it, but they were both frightened that Twister would never speak again; that he would remain like this, mute and broken. They missed their friend terribly, and now, he'd been injured. It was too much.

The sound of a car pulling up hastened them to their task at hand, drawing them out of that melancholy silence, and by the time the bed was set and ready, Ray was already opening the door. The siblings rushed out of the room, anxious to see their old friend.

"Whoa, easy, Twister. Steady. It's alright – it's me, Raymundo. You're okay."

Ray's tone was so soothing and gentle, the pair didn't quite believe at first that it was their father speaking. In fact, he hadn't spoken to _anybody_ like that since they were very young – and only when nightmares came to visit, not long after their mother had died. Alarmed by this reality, they both flew out the open door, stopping just short of where Ray faced Tito's car.

A cry of sheer terror made them take a step back. Feet scuffled the pavement audibly. Twister, climbing out of the car, and heavily supported by Tito, had panicked at the sudden movement, and was trying to scramble back away from the house. None of the Rockets could quite believe what they were seeing: welts and bruises littered Twister's body, some half hidden by fresh bandages that no doubt contained worse.

"Steady, guys," Ray cautioned in a low whisper, as Reggie and Otto seemed ready to run to their friend again. "He's pretty spooked. Give him some space."

He was right; Twister was alert, wary, and almost out of his mind with fear. He clung tightly to Tito, watching the Rockets, and in the stillness of the night, his short, gasping breaths were all too audible. There was no trace of the easygoing boy they had all known and loved; nor of the silent, grieving young man they had come to know. Instead, his eyes were hollow and haunted.

"Look at me, Twister," Ray said patiently, steadily raising his hands in a calming gesture. "You know me. You know Otto and Reggie. We won't hurt you, I promise."

"You see?" Tito prompted, his voice just as gentle. "You can trust them. You're _ohana_ to us – family. We'll help you, together."

It took many more reassurances like this, and as much love and care as they could muster, but Twister came to cautiously relax enough to begin taking a few steps forward. Tito kept close by his side the whole way, for it was plain as day that Twister was too weak to walk on his own. He never for a second took his eyes off the Rockets, but gradually, they backed down, guiding him into the house, and eventually to the guest room.

It was all going so well. Until Twister saw the bed.

A heart-wrenching sound – some bleat of raw, miserable anguish – tore from Twister's throat, and he resisted again, this time with so much instinctive strength that Tito had trouble keeping him from bolting. Reggie and Otto both felt their jaws drop, watching from afar, because Twister was now crying openly. The only other time they had seen such tears was when his parents had died.

"It's okay, Twister!" Tito hushed, over his struggles. "I know, little cuz, I know. But it's just a normal bed, okay? If you don't want to, you don't even gotta sleep on it – we can put the blankets on the ground."

"Tito?" Ray questioned, confused.

Tito didn't answer, and his old friend and partner knew, just by looking at him, that Tito was up to some of that old Hawaiian relaxation stuff. His voice stayed sure, steady and relaxed, and he carried on trying to soothe Twister, in words that were very nearly a stream of consciousness. Twister kept fighting him, blind to all else but escape, and the Rockets got a taste of what Tito had felt in terms of heartbreak.

Tito knew words alone wouldn't be enough to calm the boy, and the doctors and nurses had said as much when they'd discharged Twister from the hospital. They had given Tito a medicine that would help in situations like this, for if Twister continued at this rate, he was at serious risk of hurting himself. The point of Tito's mantra was to buy time, while he slipped a hand into his pocket.

"Raymundo," Tito said, beckoning with a tilt of his head. "Come slowly. Take his arms."

Ray hesitated, puzzled, but when Tito's hand emerged from his pocket, he was holding onto a recognizable object: a capped, filled needle. Otto and Reggie saw it, too, and they all paled, but Twister – too far gone in his fear – didn't notice it. It was only when Ray approached that he became more violent, trying to strike out at both Tito and Ray.


	5. Chapter 4

The heat in the kitchen was staggering, and was matched in scale by the noise of hungry, bustling Shoobies. Ray was up to his eyeballs in sorting orders and handing them to a racing Tito, while Reggie and Otto danced around, bussing tables almost as quickly as they filled again. Sam had made an art out of efficiently washing dishes, and Twister had quite possibly covered marathon-length distances on his blades, delivering orders around town.

He returned from one such order looking somewhat haggard and out of breath – an unusual feat, considering he and the others regularly played extreme sports. The last run had contained over 20 different orders, and he'd nearly dropped them on the way up the hill and around the bends. Somehow, he hadn't encountered any true accidents so far, and although he could really do without some of the more impatient and rude customers, he felt confident all was relatively well.

Still panting from his long trek, he leaned on one of the posts, well out of the way of the bustle, intent on taking at least one short break. He'd sacrificed his lunch hour in the spirit of helping Ray and Tito, which had certainly paid off in terms of staying on top of orders, but did little for his stamina – or his feet, for that matter. He hobble-walked on his skates into the kitchen, and when the heat trapped in the little alcove washed over him, it brought a wave of slight nausea that he became eager to escape. He retreated all the way back to the washing area, and took a seat on top of a wobbly crate to take his skates off.

Same glanced up briefly as he sat down. "Better not, Twist. We're not even close to finishing."

"I just need a minute, man," Twister huffed. "Next time, you try doing deliveries."

"It's not exactly a walk in the park here, either, dude. And in case you hadn't noticed, we're all tired. If Ray catches you slacking off-"

"I'm not slacking off!" Twister snapped, before restraining his emotions, surprised by how aggressive he'd sounded. "Sorry. I'll put them back on in a second, okay? Just... just give me a minute."

Sam shrugged, returning his full attention to the dishes, while Twister finally removed his skates and massaged some of the pain out of his feet. Not a few seconds had gone by, however, before an aggravated shout came from the dining area.

"Where is Twister?! He was supposed to be back by now!"

"Better get a move on," Sam muttered. "Told you."

Twister didn't reply, as he hastily put his skates back on. The effort to do so was rough on his feet, and he found he was having difficulty focusing. Annoyed, hot, tired and rushed, he tugged perhaps a little too hard to get one skate on, and the resulting jerk sent him back into a precariously stacked box. There was a breath of a moment as the box teetered, and Twister was just slightly too late to grab it. It fell, tumbling as it went, and slammed into the ground with an ear-splitting crash. The sound startled the life out of Sam, who ended up elbowing one of the dish stacks, and for the second time in moments, broken objects littered the floor.

Both teen boys froze solid, exchanging horrified looks.

The aggravated shout returned. And this time, it was followed immediately by Ray.

"What in the _world_ is going on?!" he bellowed, before he spotted the general wreckage. "What happened?!"

Twister looked at Sam again, then swallowed his fear, standing unsteadily on his skates. "It was my fault, Raymundo. I'm sorry-"

"God _DAMMIT_, Twister!"

Even Sam, who had been anticipating an angry reaction in the first place, looked shocked by Ray's open fury. Twister shrunk a little from Ray, just as fearfully astonished. Whether Ray saw the fear he'd just instilled in the boy, however, was unclear, as he began advancing.

"We have been working _nonstop_," he seethed, "Breaking our backs out here. Don't you think you could at least appreciate that before you wreck the kitchen?!"

"I-I'm really sorry," Twister said again, his voice breaking a little. "It was an accident, and I'll clean it up right away-"

"You know what, forget it. You have new orders to see to. Get out of here, before you shut us down for good! I should have known you'd be the one to mess everything up!"

Ray pointed forcefully to the door, and Twister scrambled. In his panic, he literally followed the unspoken direction, which naturally had Ray screaming at him more. He was shaky on his feet as he doubled back and picked up the box with the deliveries, and he looked at no one, his heart pounding and chest tight. He ignored the feeling of everyone's eyes on his back, speeding as quickly as he could manage out of the Shack.

He refused to acknowledge the stinging in his eyes, or the pain that remained in his core.

…

"Ray."

"Not now, Tito."

"Bruddah, this is one lull I intend to take advantage of," Tito pressed firmly, his voice more clipped than usual.

Ray frowned, diverting his attention away from sorting old orders from new ones. He blinked when he saw that Tito looked even angrier than he sounded, with arms folded across his chest.

"What is it?" Ray asked. "Don't tell me there's another mess-up in the orders..."

"No. But there is a mess-up in your chain of command."

At this, Otto, Reggie and Sam all cautiously and subtly listened in, watching the exchange warily. Ray's frown worsened as he understood what Tito was talking about.

"Look," he sighed, "We're all stressed. I'm sure Twister understands that. But he really should have been more careful."

"Accidents happen," Tito said flatly. "Nothing you can do about that. As for Twister, he sure didn't look like he understood when he high-tailed it outta here. You forget, bruddah, that he's stressed, too – and stressed sure doesn't pair well with some of the things you said to him."

Ray held on to his indignation for one more moment, staring Tito down. But it wasn't in his nature to be harsh, and they both knew it. His body lost that tense, fighting posture, and he sighed deeply again. With that simple motion, the electric current of nervousness seemed to vanish from the whole area.

"I need to apologize," Ray admitted with a grimace.

"Bingo."

"I'll talk to him when he gets back, then. Hell, we could all use a long break. Gimme that pen – I'll get a sign up, let these people know we're not gonna serve for eternity."

Tito happily handed Ray a pen, and Reggie subtly slid an unused whiteboard across the counter, in Ray's direction. She, Otto and Sam all instantly removed their aprons, tossing them into a pile and dashing for the nearest vacant table. In minutes, Ray and Tito had joined them at the adjacent table, and ice cold drinks were passed around. All that remained was to wait for Twister to return from his last run.

…

Twister thought it was a miracle that he'd managed to drop off the last order before the nausea had returned. He'd barely gotten around the corner, and out of sight, before he desperately slammed into an alley wall, leaning over to be violently sick in the dumpster. The smell of hot garbage worsened his illness, and he was shaking badly by the time he was able to stop and slide down to sit on the ground.

It was the heat, he knew. The heat, the distance, the speed... and now, this ever-persistent hurt, that seemed to ring in his head nonstop. He closed his eyes, trying to will it all away, but Ray's furious words kept biting at his heels. He told himself the tears that fell now were just a result of the pain of being sick; he wasn't crying. Not over that. Ray had just been under a lot of pressure, and hadn't meant it.

But he'd sounded like he'd meant it.

Time pressed at his skull, the same way the horrible headache did. Every moment he sat here was a moment wasted delivering, and served as open potential for Ray to yell at him again, or possibly fire him. With agonized effort, he began trying to climb back to his feet, his heart set on returning to the Shack. One more order. One more.

The word, 'one', became strangely distorted, echoing in his mind as he got back to his feet. He had enough time to wonder why it was that he was thinking about this unremarkable word, before the entire world slowly began to tilt. His footing, often so sure and natural in skates, became as shaky as the first time he'd ever tried rollerblading. He found himself staggering into the wall again, and the thought of 'one' changed; he suddenly knew he had to go find help.

He made it to the entry of the alley before the ground came up to meet him. He felt like he was trapped in his body, watching the event in slow-motion. He certainly felt the air leave his lungs as he struck the ground, and he heard and felt his helmet strike the hot pavement. But it was almost as if none of it were truly there. His limbs stopped responding, and without much warning, bile splashed up out of his mouth again.

His eyes slid shut as numbness crept over him. If only it weren't so _hot_, it might even have been comfortable, this slide into a strange lull of nothing.

Time stopped pressing. The world he entered here, sprawled face-down on the ground, was beyond anything he knew or understood. He forced his eyes open again after what felt like a few seconds, or a few hours. Whatever sickness had taken him seemed to have stopped, though he wasn't sure he recalled why the sickness had come, or where he was supposed to be going.

For a little while longer, he lay there, just breathing, as he came to the slow, tired understanding that he'd just passed out. This revelation scared him a little, and followed with a determination to leave this area. It didn't occur to him that calling an ambulance, or even knocking on a nearby door, were safer options. His puddled thoughts bade him return to the Shack.

One more order.

…

Ray checked his watch, worrying creeping steadily up on him. He began tapping his foot to placate some of his anxiety, which only resulted in making the others a little anxious, as well. After five more minutes of this, he stopped, and abruptly stood up from his seat.

"I'm going to look for him," he declared.

"He's probably just taking a rest on the hill," Otto speculated. "It's hot out there."

"All the more reason he should be back by now..."

"Guilty conscience never suited you," Tito observed.

"Yeah, well. I just hope he hasn't run off somewhere."

"Why don't we go look for him?" Reggie offered. "No offense, but you guys aren't the quickest on your feet."

"Ouch, Rocket Girl!"

Reggie smiled, and Ray returned it. At the prompt, the three teens stood, readying themselves to go find their friend – and, if necessary, coax him back to the Shack, in the event that he really had run off.

They were just getting into helmets and kneepads when Twister returned.

Tito saw him first. He called out, waving, but faltered, frowning at the figure skating along the pathway. Twister's route was erratic, and slower than usual. He almost met with disaster several times, as he swerved to avoid groups of people. The people were stopping, too, and staring at him as he went by. Tito rose out of his seat, his gut warning him that something was awfully wrong.

"Whoa," Sam commented, as Twister stumbled to avoid a gaggle of kids. "Uh, I don't want to be that guy, but that looks... dangerous."

They all stared a little while longer, uncertain what to make of this scene. Tito was the first to break out of his shock.

"Raymundo, ice," he said, his tone unusually serious.

"Ice...?"

"_Ice!_ Fill up a big tub with it, and add some water. Sammy, with me."

Sam barely had time to register the command, before Tito had grabbed his arm, and led him out of the Shack, heading directly for Twister. They went at a run, and as they came closer to Twister, Sam stopped letting himself get dragged, and started sprinting, as he began to see what was wrong with his friend.

Twister almost collided with them, but they managed to catch and slow him down together, taking his arms and pulling him to a halt. He staggered in their hold, and would have collapsed without their aid. Both Sam and Tito could feel the heat radiating off his skin, which prompted them to half carry him back to the shelter of the Shack at a run. Already, he was slumping down, his head hanging limply, and he didn't respond to the alarmed cries of Reggie and Otto.

"Ray, that ice!" Tito yelled.

"What's wrong with him?" Reggie asked, rushing to help take hold of Twister, as Tito and Sam lowered him quickly into a seat.

"Heatstroke," Sam said at once. "We have to cool him down, right now."

Reggie's eyes widened, and instead of waiting for Ray to bring the ice, she rushed across to the kitchen, grabbed the tub from him, hooked a stack of towels in her other hand, and rushed both items back to Twister. She, Otto and Sam started packing ice into the towels and applying them over their friend. Tito nodded approvingly, then drew up a chair to sit in front of Twister.

"Hey, little cuz," he called, reaching for the boy's wrist, to take a pulse. "Twister? Can you look at me, talk to me?"

"Tito," Twister mumbled back, his voice slurred. "T... tell... Raymundo. Okay? One... one m-more."

Tito frowned. "Try to focus, okay? Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

"'s hot."

"Yeah, I bet. You feel sick, like you're gonna throw up at all?"

"Al... already hurled. I'm sorry. Did... didn't feel... good."

"He puked?" Sam asked, alert.

"Sounds like it," Tito answered with a grimace.

"I'm calling 911. Keep putting ice on him, guys. And maybe get him lying down. We don't want him passing out."

Twister gave a delirious chuckle that left his friends deeply worried. "Too late... I went... went to sleep. Really sleepy. Don't... nap on the ground. It's _hot_. Didn't... mean to... to fall over."

As he spoke, he began slouching in the chair again, and in response, they caught him and eased him out of the chair, lowering him all the way to the floor. Ray, having watched on with no small amount of guilt, broke through and began removing Twister's helmet, pads, blades, and shirt. He began scooping large handfuls of ice and water over the boy's body to cool him down, though at this point, he knew Twister would need direct medical care.

"Tito, don't you have a bathtub or anything?" Ray demanded.

"I wish I did, bruddah. Just gotta do the best we can with the hand-held tub. Speaking of, Otto, Reggie, he's gonna need more ice water soon."

"On it," Otto confirmed, bolting with Reggie to retrieve another tub.

Left alone to care for a now-unresponsive Twister, Ray and Tito traded grim looks.

"What the hell do we tell Raoul and Sandy?" Ray whispered. "He could _die_... and it would be _my_ fault!"

"No time to start speculating. He's a strong little guy. And right now, we just gotta keep him outta the bad tides. Worry about the rest later, eh?"

Ray wasn't appeased. Having now run out of ice water, he instead reached out for Twister almost absently, and began running his hand over the kid's forehead, the way he sometimes used to do when Otto or Reggie got sick when they were younger. Twister was too far out of it to really know the touch, but he unconsciously leaned into it, all the same, letting out a small, weak sigh that made both Tito and Ray smile sadly.


	6. Chapter 5

The room was filled with the sound of poorly-hidden snickering and giggling, which cast about even in spite of the teacher's silent glares of warning. It had been funny enough for all of them, trying to fulfill the requirements for this course, but even with all their own inexperience and blunders, each member of the class had at least been competent enough to come across well.

It was not the case for Twister Rodriguez. Not so long ago, he might have found support from his old friends – found a friendly thumbs-up, or a smile of encouragement. Ever since the falling-out last week, however, a quick and daring look at the faces before him told him all he needed to know: Reggie looked outright bored, Sam was almost condescending, and Otto... Otto was there, laughing like the rest of them. Laughing at him.

"Maurice? I'm waiting," the teacher reminded him. "Do you have an answer?"

"Wh-what was the question?"

More laughter. Twister fought to ignore it; ignore the searing burn that was rising in his chest.

The teacher sighed. "In the context of the interview: Can you tell me a little more about yourself? Remember to keep it work-oriented."

He tried to answer. He _had_ the answers he wanted, all neatly lined up in his head. Yet, every time he went to speak, nothing would come forward. He faltered, and stuttered, and not a single complete sentence left his tongue. And the more people laughed, the worse his control got. He lost his grip on the words in his mind, and panic set in. As a safety, he defaulted to honesty – something he knew he could sometimes be too good at.

"I'm sorry. I-I don't know."

"You don't _know?_" the teacher asked, incredulous. "Maurice, you don't know what? It's a simple question about yourself and what you've done."

"I-I can't answer."

"O... _kay_... well, how about another question? Say you're applying to a grocery store – which is probably where you'll end up working – and I'm the manager. Why do you want to join my company?"

Again, the answers came to him immediately, but when he caught on to the subtle jibe about the grocery store, and found people's laughter had increased, he shut down. Withdrawn, ashamed and shaking, he said nothing. The silence that followed was awkward; agonizing. But he let it remain, because it was better than stammering his way to nothing.

The teacher lost patience. "You haven't studied this at all. I specifically asked you to practice these questions at home."

"Yeah," Twister replied, without inflection.

"You clearly haven't, so I'm going to give you a zero for the day. I'd also like you to see me after class."

"Sure."

"Are you replying because you mean it, or because you think that's what I want to hear?"

Twister didn't grace this with a response, either, and instead rose to return to his seat. He didn't look at anyone as he passed the rows, but he heard plenty of whispers; names and comments, about his stupidity and inadequacy. Maybe he appeared to shrug it off, he wasn't sure, but he knew in his heart that each remark stung him, adding to the mountain of pain that this entire interviews class had brought down so far.

Matters simply went downhill throughout the day. His failure in that class followed him around the halls like wildfire; there was nowhere to walk, where he wouldn't hear harshly-mocking repetitions of his performance. Otto, he saw, was loudest among them, mocking and deriding his former friend. Sam and Reggie didn't join him, and Twister thought, once or twice, that Reggie looked almost pityingly his way. He bristled at the thought; he didn't want the pity.

It came back anyway, in math class. Math was possibly one of his worst subjects, and the teacher drove her students hard. It was apparent that she, too, had heard rumor of Twister's stumbling in the interview course, and she had no reservations about slipping a joke or two about it into her lecture, at his expense. She had him come to the front to solve an equation, which of course, he found he couldn't focus on, and failed to even begin solving.

"Maybe, Maurice, it would be better if you dropped back a grade. Perhaps a few grades. I hear the kindergarten has a vacant spot... ah, but that might involve an interview."

There was something about that one that hurt, striking with more depth than the others. Whether it was because it _was_ more harmful, or because his shields had finally buckled under the strain of the day, he didn't know. But in that moment, standing there, unable to hide his shame or look the teacher in the eye, it felt like caustic had begun devouring his soul. She was off again, ranting at him more seriously now, about his future prospects.

"You won't amount to anything if you continue like this. Even a grocery store would be too much! You have to know at least basic mathematics to work there. If you want to be anything but a failure the rest of your life, you're going to have to apply yourself, and not be so lazy with your studies."

And that was it. Life gives human beings very few moments of total clarity, but for Twister, one of those moments slammed into him with all the grace of a pouncing predator. It was like some string had been wound too tightly, and had broken, bringing with it a discordant twang throughout his entire being. In his moment of great sight, he didn't just hear what the teacher was saying – he _believed_ her, the way he'd always believed what people told him. The way people always treated him, long before this horrible day. Of course it wasn't just his shields buckling from one bad turn of luck, he thought. No, this... this was the result of a long, long series of failures. _Years_ of inadequacy.

"Maurice? Are you listening? Or do I have to go more slowly?" the math teacher went on, with the chorus of amused students behind her all the way. "How do you expect to live or find a job if you don't focus?"

"I don't."

His response was as quiet and steady as the clarity that had enraptured him, and it completely silenced the room, in spite of him being barely audible. The teacher's arms fell slowly to her sides from the triumphant fold she'd held them in, and she frowned.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I don't expect to live, or find a job. Thanks for the class, Mrs. B."

He turned from her, heading directly for the door, and hooking his pack from his seat on the way. The teacher stared after him a moment, open-mouthed and shocked, but when it became clear that he meant to leave, her shock turned to anger.

"Get back here this instant, Mr. Rodriguez!"

"No, thanks. I'm done. See you around, maybe," Twister replied, in that same, flat, damaged tone, without turning.

He heard the confused whispers behind him as he left, but he blocked them out, determined to escape as evenly as possible. If he lingered, the teacher might send others to detain him in the principal's office, and he didn't know if he could handle that. No... he was _certain_ he couldn't handle it. He knew how far he'd been pushed this day, and was afraid of it, well enough, but he didn't know what levels of hell one more push could put him on. He didn't want to find out.

He pondered his earlier answer, as he began running. How did he expect to live? He didn't. Job? Not getting one. Future? No such thing. It made his feet carry him faster, like a terrible evil was directly at his heels. He stopped thinking about the answer he'd given, and started thinking about a good place to hide. To find a way out. He didn't want to die, not really, but he needed out, _right the fuck now_.

His need grew to critical levels in such a short period of time that he abandoned going to longer distances, ducking instead into one of the more secluded restrooms on the school grounds. He enclosed himself in the furthest stall, slumping down against the cold wall, panting. After a breath, he began scrambling for the zip on his bag, his fingers unusually clumsy and shaky.

A hesitation came to him then, drawing him out of the fog of pain. He knew what he wanted, and knew how to do it, but he was still unsure what it might bring. His fingers found the little razor in his roller blade repair kit, but he gave himself pause. He'd heard plenty of stories – rumors – about kids who... did _that_ to themselves. He'd never understood it; never got why someone might deliberately hurt themselves.

Never got it, until today.

Hesitation fled; decision reigned. With forethought, he undid his shorts, tugging them sharply down, and yanked the cuffs of his boxers up high. It felt foolish and shameful, sitting here this way, yet the feeling was appropriate. He brought the razor down to his skin, and in a quick, striking motion, slashed open the skin.

He gasped. It was painful, _extremely _painful, yet an immediate rush of relief piled into him at light speed. Blood gushed out of the long, deep, fresh wound on his thigh, dripping down onto the floor in a hypnotizing pattern. Entranced, he felt the urge to do it again, and followed the impulse to its conclusion, ripping another cut across his leg.

He repeated this action seventeen times across each thigh, stuck on autopilot. The quickness of the strikes cast blood spray everywhere in the stall, from his hand swiping across the earlier wounds to make new ones. Even with blood pooling, he couldn't stop, until the last cut came. Another snap pulled at him – _screamed _at him – to stop. Stop now. _STOP!_

He dropped the razor on the floor, panting to the point of hyperventilation. Horror swept over him as he truly beheld what he had done, and in a blind panic, he began trying to grab toilet paper to dab at his injuries. This served only to make a mess of bloodied tissue, and he resolved to let the wounds clot, instead turning his attention to the floor. The spray of droplets on the walls could be overlooked, but the small, dark red pool would surely be reported.

With a strange sort of patience, he peeked out of the stall, praying no one would walk in on him like this: awkwardly dashing between stall and sink with his shorts around his ankles, and blood running down his legs. It took many back-and-forth trips like this, but he eventually managed to remove all trace of his blood from the floor. By this time, his cuts had mostly dried, so he gently tugged the cuffs of his boxers down. He hissed at the raw pain, but a taste of the earlier rush returned, and he found he had little problem with that.

Pulling his shorts back up, he elected to sit awhile, uncertain with what he had wrought. He could feel the blood soaking his boxers, and even saw small spots on his shorts. It wasn't enough to draw attention, but he knew he'd have to be careful. No small amount of apprehension filled him; what would his mother say, if she knew? And his dad? He'd have to secretly wash or throw out the boxers, at least.

And the razor? It sat where he'd put it, still bloodied. It was the only item he hadn't cleaned yet, and he wasn't sure he wanted to. A crimson blush found its way up his neck, growing from two shames: the shame that had driven him here, and the shame of what he'd just done to himself. Memory of the argument with his friends rushed in, flooding him with guilt. They had all been angry, but... what if it was his fault? And what would _they_ say if they found out? Would they make fun of him for it?

He didn't want to know. He had to try to resume course; deflect scrutiny. Yes, he'd have to answer for running out of math class, but things seemed a little more manageable. The moment of his deepest despair had passed, for the moment. If it ever returned... well, he thought, plucking the razor off the floor, he knew what to do about it.

The bell rang when he finally stepped out of that bathroom, trying his hardest not to limp from the pain of walking on fresh injuries. Self-consciously, he kept his head down as he made his way to his next class. The crush of people swarmed by him as he walked, and though he heard more of the same taunts, they were distant now, like so much background noise. They couldn't bother him now; not with where he'd gone.

"Twister?"

That lone voice, gentle and hesitant, brought all manner of agonies right back to the surface. He stopped cold, tension locking every muscle in his body. He didn't want to turn around.

Reggie didn't let him face away from her for long. Knowing he wouldn't turn, she moved past him, and came to face him, her eyes full with... what was that, sympathy? More pity? He kept his eyes down, though not so much that he couldn't see her.

"What do you want?" he growled.

He regretted his tone as he saw Reggie grimace. "Look. I don't want to fight anymore. This is stupid. Do you... do you want to sit with us at lunch?"

Surprised, Twister studied her face, searching for more signs of deception and taunting, or more of that pity. There were none of these things there, but she did look... _worried_. For him? It confused him.

"Wh-who's 'us'?" he asked, carefully.

"Me and Sam. Otto is... predictably Otto, but he'll come around eventually. You're still our friend, Twister. And you kind of look like you could use a friend right now."

It ached, that comment. Why, in this time of his furthest fall, did she suddenly seek reconciliation? Again, he wanted to mark it up to pity – they had all seen him suffer humiliation today. A small voice in his head said that this was normal, but that it was more empathy than pity that determined Reggie and Sam's actions. That same voice also reflected a stronger longing inside: he wanted his friends back. It was a simple desire, and he didn't like to admit to it, but he knew he might feel happier if he had them at his side again.

"I... I guess I could join you for awhile," he mumbled.

Reggie's smile at his answer was both sad relief, and joy. Before he could ponder on it further, she'd rushed forward, and gripped him in a tight, warm hug. He didn't return it, too off-balance to make the appropriate response go to his limbs, but it didn't matter. Reggie let go, and eagerly led him to the lunch hall. She set a pace that was rough on his new scars, and he found it made him feel a little sick. He fought back the odd rush of nausea and vertigo, hoping the pace would at least get him a chair faster.

Sam was waiting for them. He glanced up as they approached, and offered a light smile.

"Hey, Twist."

"...hey, Sammy. Listen," Twister implored, spurred by the positive contact, "I, uh... I'm sorry, you know. About all the things I said-"

"I wasn't exactly kind, myself," Sam replied. "Apology accepted. And I'm sorry, too. Now, come sit down. You look really tired."

"Can't blame him for that," Reggie said, as they seated themselves. "Mrs. B had no right to put you up like that, Twist. It was really heartless."

"I mean, she's right," Twister mumbled, looking away, and missing the concerned glance shared between Reggie and Sam. "I'm not gonna get anywhere in life."

"That's not true! You're just good at different subjects. Your camerawork is still really amazing!"

"Can't do videography if I can't even master an interview. I'm useless."

The concerned looks increased; neither of them had ever heard Twister so self-critical before. He didn't know it, either, but he looked pale and sickly. Reggie clicked her tongue, standing up again.

"I'm gonna go get some tacos. Want me to bring you some?"

"No thanks, Reg. I'm not really hungry."

"You gotta eat," Sam prompted. "There's that big drill in gym next period."

Twister felt the blood drain from his face – what little there was of it. There was no way he would be able to hide his wounds in gym. He'd totally forgotten! Swallowing hard, he tried to regain composure, to hide his dawning horror from his friends. They didn't buy it.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Reggie asked gently.

"Uh... yeah. Yeah, I-I... I'm just not having a good day. What, ah, what if Tice yells at me?"

"He's always yelling anyway," said Sam. "But I don't think he'd be against letting you sit it out for a little while. You do look really pale, dude."

"I'm going for tacos," Reggie said again, decisively. "I'll get you something; some fruit. I want you to try to eat a little bit, even if you don't feel like it."

Twister resigned to her authority in silence. Both he and Sam watched her pick her way across the cafeteria.

"If someone had told me seven years ago that she'd turn into a mother hen, I'd have laughed in their face," Sam remarked.

"Mother hen?"

"Overprotective. She's almost like Raymundo now."

"Oh. Yeah, I guess so."

Sam's brows knitted together, and he casually observed Twister. He'd been there for the classes, and seen Twister humiliated, and while he felt bad for him, he'd expected Twister to at least bounce back a little. There was something wrong, and Sam was growing frustrated trying to pinpoint it. The boy's posture was a little slouched, and he still hadn't looked anyone directly in the eye, carrying a burning, highly visible shame, and something else that Sam wasn't sure about. What was it? Depression? Fear?

Reggie returned while Sam was still puzzling things out. She carried two trays, and firmly planted one in front of Twister. It had a small cup of fruit and a carton of milk on it. Twister wrinkled his nose.

"Eat," Reggie commanded sternly.

Twister reluctantly stuck a plastic fork into the fruit, but he didn't try any. Sighing, Reggie set herself down again, content that there was at least food before her friend, even if he wouldn't eat it. Discussion between them was hesitant, and Twister didn't contribute, uncaring whether his friends noticed or not at this point. He felt like he needed to lie down, and there was a dull, deep pain radiating from his thighs now. While Reggie and Sam got caught up in a conversation, Twister subtly looked down, trying to determine if any more blood had soaked through.

There was a somewhat larger patch now, partially hidden by his side cargo pocket, but obvious for what it was. His heart raced a little faster, and he began trying to rub it out. He succeeded only in worsening the stain, and his fingers came away dyed red, as well. He vowed that he'd drop by another bathroom to wash it off, but decided it would have to wait until the end of lunch, so it wouldn't draw as much attention.

The bell came in good time, and Twister got up before his friends could see his leg, moving so that he was angled away. It displayed the blood to others, but nobody seemed to notice or care. As they began walking, however, Twister involuntarily stepped too wide to keep up, and was too late to stop a gasp of pain escape his lips. Immediately, Sam and Reggie stopped, looking back at him.

"Are you okay?" Reggie pried.

"Fine, just weird muscle," Twister blurted.

She didn't buy it, and they all knew it, but nothing more was said. Twister noticed that both Reggie and Sam had slowed their pace a little as they entered the gym hall, and it embarrassed him. They really were going out of their way to be kind to him, weren't they? He felt bad, lying to them, yet what could he ever say about something like this? He wasn't sure he could handle regaining and then losing his friends in one day.

"MAURICE RODRIGUEZ!"

The sharp, familiar bark made them all startle, no one more so than Twister, who instinctively flinched away from the sound, and jarred his injuries. Before he could recover, Tice Ryan was upon the group, sporting his usual stern, no-nonsense glower – an expression he directed at Twister alone. Twister shrunk back from him a little, bracing himself. He _knew_ it; had known it all along. Tice was about to chew him out, and he'd be all the way back to square one again-

"What is that on your leg, Rodriguez?" Tice demanded, pointing bluntly.

Twister slapped a hand down to cover the blood, realizing too late that this only looked more suspicious. "Nothing. Sir."

"My butterbar shoulders, it's 'nothing!' Remove your hand!"

"I-I gotta go, sir, sorry, sir!" Twister stammered, backing away, only to meet the wall with his back.

"DON'T MOVE, maggot! You have an injury. You will report to the medical field office immediately, then return to duty! Rocket, Dullard – escort your squadmate, on the double!"

They all winced as Tice blew his whistle – indoors – before stalking off towards an unruly and generally misbehaving throng of boys. Reggie and Sam didn't bother to watch him go, instead facing their friend. For the second time, Twister found himself almost cornered against this wall, trembling under the scrutiny of his friends.

"Twist," Reggie said carefully, "What happened? You didn't tell us you were hurt."

"I'm not," Twister denied. "Tice is crazy. It's, uh... it's ketchup."

Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose. "No, it's not. Come on, dude. Just tell us. Did you... fall, or something? Or-"

"Did someone hurt you?" Reggie demanded, suddenly frowning. "It's okay to talk to us about it, you know. You don't have to hide it. We'll take whoever did it to the office-"

"Just leave me _alone!_"

Twister's growling outburst startled them both into silence. His voice had almost broken, and they realized they were too close, almost looming over him with their demands. They backed off, seeing no small amount of fear in him. It was then that Sam finally identified the other emotion in Twister's eyes – the one he'd been trying to put his finger on in the lunch hall.

It was _self-loathing_.

"Twister-"

"Go away. Please. It's nothing," Twister was drawing too close to begging, but he didn't care. "I promise, it's nothing. I'll deal with it, okay? Just... tell Tice I'm at the nurse's office."

Before either of them could say anything, he bolted, and only now, in his run, did they see a limp. Reggie almost ran after him, but Sam set a hand on her arm, stopping her firmly.

"Let him go," he said slowly.

"He's hurt!"

"Yeah. Yeah, he is. But I don't think cornering him and interrogating him is going to help. Not if this is what I think it is."

Reggie looked at him oddly. "What do you mean?"

"I think... I think we need to go talk to a counselor. We won't give them Twister's name, but... something's seriously wrong with him. It was in his eyes, Reg. He looked like he _hated_ himself... and I think today just unlocked something in him. Something that's making him sick. Or, I guess, tapping into sickness that was already there..."

"Okay. Officially confused. What does that have to do with anything? You think someone bullied him enough for him to feel like that?"

"I don't know. It's possible. Honestly, I'd kind of prefer if someone was bullying him. It would be a lot easier to deal with than... than what might really be going on with him."

Reggie almost reprimanded him, shocked that Sam would say that; would wish any kind of harm to Twister. Common sense caught up to her then, and she knew it wasn't what he meant. Some inkling of suspicion grew in her mind, and when she met Sam's eye, it worsened.

"Hey, you two!"

They turned abruptly, drawn out of the moment, to see Otto racing towards them. He was panting, having just run all the way across the campus to make it to gym class.

"What are you standing around here for? You guys look like you've seen a ghost or something. Let's get to class, before Tice loses his mind."

"We're not going," Reggie said, the decision surfacing almost as soon as she spoke.

Otto tilted his head. "Not going? You're cutting _Tice's_ class?!"

"Yes. And so are you."

"I don't think that's such a good idea," Sam countered.

"This is gonna sound weird, but I agree with Sammy," said Otto. "What are you thinking, Reg?"

"I'm thinking it's time you and your ego got over your fight with Twister. Come on. We have to go find that counselor."

Otto looked angry at the mention of his former friend, and confused by mention of a counselor, but Reggie was off, and Sam and Otto were left rushing to catch up to her, both babbling protests. She ignored them, carrying an intense look the entire way to the counselor's office. In reality, inside, she was scared. Scared of what Sam had hinted at, and scared for Twister. _Something_ was happening to him that she couldn't really grasp, but she knew that whatever it was, it was bad. Very bad.

…

"I'm afraid I can't help you."

In the privacy of the counselor's office, the three teens wore a range of expressions. Otto still carried his anger and resentment, yet had it tempered by shock from what Sam had just described to the counselor regarding Twister. Reggie seemed as if she might cry, and was fighting it to maintain her pride. Sam, last in line, just looked tired and resigned. He'd spent the last fifteen or twenty minutes trying to explain his position, and the observations he had made, and the events that had culminated into this moment.

And the conclusions. Awful, terrifying conclusions that Sam would give a lifetime not to have thought of. Conclusions that Twister might not be well at all; that his injury might not be from bullies, but from something much worse.

And yet, here Sam was, being told that there was no salvation.

"I thought you were supposed to help people," Sam accused.

The counselor grimaced. "I do. But I can't help, unless this... unknown person... comes forward of his own accord, or you give me his name."

"But he _won't_ come forward. He's too scared, and I don't think he'll trust anyone at this point, especially not if he finds out we tried to come to you. He... he's been pushed too far. He needs _help_, from the outside. We can do that for him, with advice from you... can't we?"

"I'm afraid I can't advise that. You're his friends, yes, but you're not trained professionals, and from what it sounds like, he needs trained assistance. I understand your worry for him, Sam, I really do, and I wish I could do something about it. My hands are tied, however. I'd need his name to be able to take any kind of action to benefit him. I know it sounds like bullshit to you all, but it is the truth."

At any other time, they might have been shocked at hearing a school official swear. Now, it was just a word, and did nothing to alleviate the feeling of failure. It was a painful conflict: they either help Twister, by surrendering his name and probably every ounce of his remaining trust, or they let him continue suffering. A devil's choice.

Sam was silent a long time, debating. Regardless of Reggie and Otto's tendencies to take leadership, they deferred to his call in this matter, simply because he appeared to have the best idea of what was happening, and because the full revelation Sam had just explained still left them reeling. He didn't like holding this mantle... but, if he had to, for Twister, he would. He just hoped that when the dust settled, Twister would forgive them all.

The counselor watched him patiently, never pushing; allowing him to come forward in his own time.

Sam took a deep breath. Let it go. Took another. Then:

"It's Maurice Rodriguez."

"Okay," the counselor replied, with equal softness. "Alright. Thank you for telling me, Sam, and thank all of you for being brave enough to come forward. I imagine it can't be easy, with you four being friends for so long."

"He's no friend of mine," Otto snapped.

"That may be, Otto, but you can't deny your connection to him. And I think you're maybe a little bit worried for him, too, aren't you?"

Otto looked away from her, folding his arms over his chest. Reggie frowned at her brother, shaking her head, before eyeing the counselor doubtfully.

"What happens next?" she asked.

"I'll have to make a couple of calls," the counselor explained. "The first priority will be to find Maurice, and keep him safe. What happens after that is going to depend a lot on him. If he doesn't want to talk with me, or refuses help, I may not be able to act unless he poses a significant danger to himself or others."

"D-danger?"

The counselor hesitated.

"You mean if he becomes suicidal," Sam said, his voice uneven.

"That's not always the case, with people struggling with self-injury. It's a very sensitive and complicated issue – sometimes people who harm even do so to feel a little more alive. There isn't room for conjecture or assumption in this; it all depends on Maurice."

"What happens if he... if he is suicidal?"

"I'd have to take steps to protect him. But we're not on that road yet, guys. One step at a time, alright? It won't do anyone any good to jump to conclusions. Especially not Maurice."

Satisfied that she'd at least temporarily halted that particular freight train in its tracks, the counselor raised the phone, to begin the search for Twister.

…

Though there were plenty of staff on the search, Sam, Reggie and Otto had eventually grown restless, and with the counselor's blessing, they had been excused from further classes to join in. Even Otto's animosity had been long-extinguished, for the longer they went without sign of Twister, the more anxious they grew.

As the fates would have it, it was Otto who found him first.

He wasn't sure what prompted him to go look in the little tree grove out the back of the woodshop building. It was some instinct, masked in all kinds of mixed buckets of emotion and thought. He followed it almost out of absence, too caught up in his worries and the conflict of hate to truly notice where he was.

He was brought sharply back to the present by the slightest of sounds.

Stopping short, he looked around, completely alert now. He could faintly hear other people: teachers in the classrooms, teachers searching, the calls of the others, as they looked for Twister. None of those things matched what he had heard. It was almost like a-

A weak, agonized cry came again, and Otto was moving. He moved faster than he thought possible without a board, bike or skates, and when he burst through a secluded line of brush, his heart moved in time with that speed.

"Twister!"

Twister lay in the dirt, on his side, facing away from Otto. He was curled up, and shaking badly, and in the dust below, there was blood.

So much blood.

_He's dying_. It was the first comprehensible string of words Otto managed to cobble together. Twister – his _friend_, he realized at long last – was dying, bleeding out of... an endless sea of cuts. They were all over his arms, in neat, long lines. They covered his legs, all the way down to his ankles. Each was deep, and wept rivulets of blood, to mingle with the muddy red mixture on the ground.

"Twister. Twister, dude, please don't be dead!" Otto balked, skidding to a halt and dropping to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached out for his friend. "I'm sorry! Alright? I'm sorry. This whole stupid fight was bullshit. You're my buddy. You're my best friend. You hear me? _Don't fucking die_. Don't you dare!"

His hand made contact with Twister's shoulder, and the boy flinched, then cried out in pain, as the motion tugged at every single open wound on his body. Otto turned his head, drawing in as much air as he could, and began to shout at the top of his lungs. He called over and over: for Sam, for Reggie, for teachers, for his dad, for _anyone_. Anyone to come help.

He didn't really know when those first footsteps arrived. He simply clung onto Twister as best he could without further agitating those terrible wounds. He remembered carefully easing a bloodied razor from Twister's limp fingers, and throwing it spitefully down, out of reach. He remembered Twister's eyes, barely open and revealing fading consciousness, and the confusion and relief in them. He remembered the shouts, and people pulling him away from Twister, and hands – so many hands.

There was blood all over his hands.

…

Tito knew he was coming upon the point in his life where he could be considered an old man. He knew it when his hair had started to resemble Ray's, and knew it in the creak of his bones and tired muscles, and most especially his feet, which protested more and more these days at the grill. He was content with it; it was hard to not look forward to a time in his days when he could really begin to know the wisdom of age. And the aches.

He'd never anticipated how quickly it would spring on him on this day.

He watched the three teens across from him, sympathy twinging in his core. Reggie – proud Reggie, who never shed a tear when the worst of sports injuries brought her down – had given up her defiance, and wept silently and openly. It was rare enough a look on her that it seemed out of place, and compounded the seriousness of all that had taken place.

Sam was withdrawn. He, of all of them, had the most experience with things similar to this issue; he'd been acquainted enough with Oliver when that young man had turned from computers and robots, to drugs and alcohol. In due course, Oliver had found his way back to the land of light, with the help of Sam and others. But this... this was something much deeper than addiction. It was sickness, of a sort that Tito instinctively knew had been building for years. The weight of that knowledge put a darkness in Sam's distant gaze.

That left Otto, sitting uncomfortably in his chair. Guilt and conflict radiated from him in waves, and Tito sensed the severity of this, too. Part of the boy blamed himself for Twister's fall from grace, and the other part remained furious, still clinging to harsh words exchanged in the breaking of friendship. He kept rubbing incessantly at his fingers, trying to remove the blood that had long since been scrubbed away.

Tito shivered as he recalled how the scene had been described to him. The image he had in his mind of Twister – young, carefree, and content – did not match to the image of the kid lying in a pool of his own blood, twitching as shock set in from wounds he had inflicted on himself. The conclusion in the aftermath was that Twister hadn't meant to hurt himself that badly; he'd only wanted relief from the pain, but had gone too far, and realized it too late.

Of all the things Tito had seen coming, this was not one of them. He'd been aware that the boy sometimes became insecure, especially when he was teased about his lack of intellectual prowess. But Twister had hidden that part of himself so deeply, and so well, that it had compressed like a spring on a garage door, coiled and waiting, and terribly warped. This event was the spring finally breaking free, and wreaking absolute devastation upon everything it struck.


	7. Chapter 6

It was good to return to the beach. Something about the gentle crash of the waves, and the sun on the sandy shores, brought peace to all who laid their boards here.

Almost everyone.

Twister desperately wanted to find that feeling again, and at a loss for options elsewhere, had brought himself to these grounds, in search of anything that might make the other, more terrible feelings go far, far away. It barely worked; the reality of his... encounter... weighed hard on him. Oh, he understood, fully, what had happened to him, that night at the party. He understood far too well. It had just never occurred to him that something like that could happen to him.

The shit of it was, despite everything he'd heard about drugs knocking people out, he hadn't been unconscious; not fully. He'd been too out of it to take action to defend himself, or even move, but he'd been aware of every second; every hand; every breath in his ear. He'd heard their soft laughter, and the taunts, and felt them undress him. He'd felt those who entered him, and those whom had chosen to have him enter them.

His back still stung from the whip. Nobody had told him about _that_, either. And, because there was no limit to their actions, they hadn't taken to mercy. He was a _thing_ to them – a toy. They had hit him as hard as they pleased, without care for repercussions.

He felt his stomach spasm, and fought down bile that threatened to rise up. He didn't need the scrutiny of beachgoers right now, in this moment when he felt most exposed. Besides, he'd already thrown up plenty this morning, when he'd awoken to remember what had been done to him. Shivering, he drew up his knees close to his chest, hiding his face and shutting his eyes.

_This doesn't happen to guys_.

Everything in that overwhelmingly awkward health unit at the high school had always talked about girls and women getting... attacked like that. There were pages and pages about the meaning of consent, and about the technical details that almost sent him to sleep on most days. But there was nothing, no point of reference at all, about _males_. He'd assumed it wasn't really possible. That he'd always want it, when the time came.

He hadn't.

And now... now there were whispers. He'd heard them in the halls today, about the party. Why, most everyone had attended, and like all secrets came to be, Twister found his were wide open, as the people who had trapped him in that room bragged their accomplishments. Of course, in their stories, they never hinted that he'd been so unwilling; to the school, he was all the picture of _slut_.

He didn't bother with classes for the rest of the day. He'd fled school (_like a coward_) to this place, now. On the beach. Aching, and scared, and hollow. Hurting in ways he'd never felt before.

He really did throw up that time, leaning to the side to vomit in the sand. Only one or two people turned to stare, and they simply picked up their belongings and moved away from him, assuming him to be drunk. Gasping for breath, he tried to drive away the feeling of _invasion_, but it persisted, like some insidious flu, determined to make him sick.

Footsteps on the sand behind him made him haul out of recovery mode, for he no longer liked the idea of people approaching him from behind. Turning without grace, he scrambled to his feet, not daring to look all the way up. He froze in surprise when he saw Tito, standing there, with his arms folded.

"Twister," Tito began, somewhat disapprovingly. "You should be in school."

Twister didn't answer, for his throat had closed. His mind bombarded him with images of that hellish night, and with sounds of people in the halls, whispering behind his back. Behind the back he couldn't turn. Embarrassed and ashamed, Twister kept his head down. Of course Tito would be upset with him. _Everyone_ would be upset with him, once the rumors spread far enough.

But Tito was no fool. He lost all the annoyance and indignation he'd carried from the Shore Shack. He'd seen Twister here, and seen the boy lean over to be sick. At first, his assumption had been that Twister was possibly drunk, but now, looking at him... there was a horrible shame in the boy's downcast gaze, and the way he held himself spoke of untold levels of pain – in his body or heart, Tito couldn't determine. And the way Twister had shot up out of the sand, like a man pursued by hell itself...

"Come up to the Shack, little cuz," he told Twister, softening his voice and beckoning. "How long you been out here, huh? You feeling okay?"

Again, Twister was silent, and he flinched and shied from Tito when the man moved his arm. The reaction was so subtle, and so small, but it spoke a million-million words; words that had Tito on high alert. He'd seen a few kids and teens react like _that_ before, and the cause behind it was never good. He wanted to believe that maybe Twister was suffering from the heat, but everything in what he was observing told him something worse was going on here.

"Twister?" he tried, still keeping his voice gentle.

It took a full minute for Twister to finally decide on a course of action. Slowly, and shakily, he took a step towards Tito. Then another. The whole time, he watched Tito like a hawk, clearly terrified. With patience and slow, steady movements, Tito kept beckoning to him and – keeping in mind how Twister had reacted to his presence – let Twister walk a little ways behind him.

He led the boy up to the Shack, and tried to convince him to sit down somewhere away from where customers might usually be. "It'll be cooler upstairs, little bruddah."

Twister froze again, his breath catching audibly as he stared at the steps that led up to Tito's place. Tito frowned, scrutinizing the boy, and realized Twister had begun hyperventilating. His eyes didn't seem to truly see the stairs, but something else – something that terrified him, and brought humiliation crashing into him.

"Hey, Twister," Tito called. "Look at me, little cuz. You're okay. You don't gotta go up there if you don't want to, okay? Let's sit you down a sec. I'm gonna get you some water."

To Tito's relief, Twister complied, finding his way to one of the tables and sliding into a chair. Tito kept an eye on him as he filled a large glass, then carefully made his way back to the boy. Despite making his presence obvious, Twister still jumped badly when Tito set the water down. Tito felt his heartstrings tug painfully when he saw tears tracking their way down the kid's face.

"Hey, shh. It's alright. You're okay. Take some deep breaths for me, alright? Like so."

He demonstrated, desperate to help Twister out of whatever he was going through. Twister tried to follow along, but in truth, he was still only half present. Out of instinct, he reached for the glass, his hands shaking badly, and he nearly dropped it trying to bring it to his lips. He had hardly taken a sip before his face grew horribly pale, and Tito's eyes widened. He shot up again, racing to grab the small bin by the counter, and had just managed to set it beside Twister before the kid was violently sick again.

"Okay, that's it," Tito muttered, more to himself than anything else. "We're gonna call your mom and dad-"

"NO!"

The outburst scared the life out of Tito, and he found Twister staring directly at him now, with that terror much stronger in his eyes.

"You need some rest," Tito implored. "If you don't wanna talk about it, you don't gotta do that, either, but something's got you worked up, and I think it'd be better if you went home."

"Th-they can't know," Twister whispered, looking away again. "Please. Tito, please, they can't know. They can't, I-I can't-"

"Hey, hey. Easy. Deep breaths, remember? Take it easy. Tell me what's going on, bruddah."

Twister shook his head, then brought his arms up, covering his head and resting it on the table, still crying. A pair of Shoobies intent on food appeared, only to be waved off by an angry and focused Tito; this was far more important than customers right now.

"I can't do this," Twister sobbed, shrinking in on himself. "I can't do it. I can't. Please, Tito, help me, help me-"

"Twister. You gotta calm down. Remember, your old Hawaiian uncle doesn't have a clue what's going on right now. Talk to me."

"They made me... made me... I didn't want it," Twister blurted, his voice utterly broken. "I didn't want to go with them, but they put something in my drink. They drugged me. It's not supposed to happen like that! I'm not a fucking girl, it's n-n-not supposed to happen, but it did. They made me. I couldn't move. I couldn't make them stop, and I-I told them no, but they didn't... d-didn't listen, they took off m-my clothes and they... they... I don't know, I don't understand, man. I don't, it's not supposed to be like this!"

The day may have been hot, but right then, Tito felt as if Antarctica itself had thrown a blanket of cold over him. He felt his jaw fall, and his words fell away with it.

"Everyone at school thinks I-I wanted... they're talking behind my back. They're talking like I'm a fucking whore, like it was supposed to be this way, but it wasn't, I didn't want it, Tito, you have to believe me, please-"

"Stop. Twister, stop. That's enough. You have to breathe, cuz. Just breathe. With me, now. In, and out."

Though his advice was for Twister, Tito found he himself needed the calm that came from such an exercise. His mind was reeling with what the poor kid had just told him, and denial came to him, like so many violent waves in a tropical storm. As it hit him, Tito realized that Twister, too, must have felt the denial, along with humiliation, pain, and dark despair.

Twister was right: it wasn't supposed to be like this. Not for one of the kids Tito had come to see as family. Not like this.

He wanted to reach over and hug the boy; reassure him that everything would be okay. But, even as the thought came to him, Tito knew any such contact would not be welcome. Twister would feel not comfort, but memory – memory of rape, and violation. Touch would only exacerbate the agony for him.

…

Reggie, Otto and Sam were surprised to be meeting here, of all places. None of them recalled having gotten into trouble today, yet being brought together to the principal's office meant that _something_ had happened. It made them uneasy, and in spite of repeated attempts to get passing adults to inform them what was going on, they remained in the dark. After awhile, it also occurred to them to be worried about Twister's absence from the group.

Their worries worsened when Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez walked in the door, followed closely by Raymundo and Noelani, and Mrs. Dullard, as well as the school principal.

"Dad? What's going on?" Reggie asked uncertainly.

Ray didn't answer, but he and Noelani did move in behind her and Otto. Mrs. Dullard looked furious, but she came to Sam, all the same. The teens exchanged wary glances, and then looked to Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez. Sandy had tears rolling down her cheeks, and held tightly to Raoul's hand. Raoul himself looked beyond furious, and tired.

"I'm sorry to keep you three here," the principal told them, seating himself with a weary sigh, "But I'm afraid a very serious matter has come up, concerning your friend, Maurice."

At Twister's name, Sandy broke into quiet sobs. The trio felt their hearts lurch.

"Is he okay?" Sam blurted fearfully. "Something's happened to him, hasn't it?!"

The principal looked at him oddly. "Do you know anything, Sam?"

"N-no? I mean, the last time we saw him was... well... uh..."

"At the party," Reggie filled in for him, glancing at her parents apologetically.

"It's okay, Reggie," Noelani reassured her. "We know about the party, and while we're not happy you and your brother disobeyed our orders, you're not in trouble just now."

"What can you three tell us about this party?" the principal pressed on. "Start from the beginning, please."

"There wasn't anything special about it," Otto mumbled, after an awkward pause. "Just... all the seniors wanted to sort of get together, you know? Without parents. I guess it was a stupid idea."

"Was there any alcohol involved?"

"...maybe a little."

"Oswald?"

"Okay. A lot of alcohol. Everyone was drinking, alright? We're sorry. Can you please just tell us what this has to do with Twister? Is he in trouble?"

The principal sighed again, his eyes darting quickly to the Rodriguezes and back. "Your families and I received a call from Tito Makani earlier today. He said that he'd found Maurice on the beach, in a state of severe shock and illness. He also informs me that Maurice had been drugged and sexually assaulted at the party by an unknown group of seniors."

Sandy broke into outright _howling_, and Raoul quickly guided her out of the room, to try to calm her down. The three teens barely noticed the outburst. Reggie's hands flew up to cover a gasp, Otto had gone still, and Sam scrambled for his inhaler, taking a long and stuttering drag from it. The adults all subconsciously clustered together, and hands went to the shoulders of their children.

"I don't understand," Otto said flatly.

"What don't you understand, Oswald?"

"I mean... he's a guy. Twister's a _guy_. There's no way he... I mean, is... is he gay or something?"

"Dammit, Otto!" Reggie all but snarled at him, as Ray rubbed his forehead tiredly.

"What?! I wouldn't be against him being gay-"

"This has nothing to do with his sexuality, okay? This is serious. Someone tells you that Twister was held against his will and... and attacked, and all you can ask is whether he's gay?! Seriously?!"

"But he's a guy!"

"Otto! _Enough_," Ray barked, silencing his son.

"I understand your confusion," the principal said. "A lot of what we're taught in media, and even at this school, doesn't cover male victims of sexual attacks like this. Your sister is right, in that Maurice's sexuality is irrelevant to the matter. Do you know what 'lack of consent' means when people are having sex?"

Otto turned crimson. "I took the stupid health course, yeah. It's when a girl says no to sex-"

"When _anyone_ says 'no' to sex, or when they can't give consent. Your friend was approached by these students, and because he was drugged, he wasn't in a fit state to give consent. They continued anyway, and because they did this, that is considered rape."

"Oh, god," Sam wheezed.

Paula squeezed Sam's shoulder. "If you'd like to leave, sweetie, that's perfectly fine-"

"No! Mom, no. I need... I need to understand how this happened. Twister's my _friend_. I want to help him, in any way I can."

Spurred on by Sam's conviction, the three began to tell all they knew of the party: the last time they'd seen Twister, how he'd seemed to them, who else was there; everything. If one of them lost details to fuzzy, booze-addled memory, the other would pick up. For half an hour, they painted the picture of the party... and, in the end, came to the chilling conclusion that none of them had ever realized when Twister had disappeared from their midst. None of them had noticed. Their friend had been raped, right under the same roof, while they laughed and danced the night away.

"Where is he now?" Reggie asked, her voice shaking. "Can we talk to him?"

"Mr. Makani has taken him to the hospital for treatment and observation. I'm afraid I don't know when you'll be able to see him, but I imagine you can visit him there."

"H-hospital?"

The principal grimaced, then looked to the parents, as if asking permission for something. They could almost hear Ray grinding his teeth.

"Tell them," he growled. "They deserve to know the truth, for his sake."

"Well... generally, in cases like this, the police need to check him to see if he has any of his attackers' DNA... on him, to help identify who they are, so they can be arrested. I'm told Maurice also has significant injuries on his back that require medical attention."

"They hurt him?" Sam asked weakly.

"I'm afraid so. I'm so sorry, kids. I wish I didn't have to put you all through this, and I wish Maurice had never suffered this kind of cruelty. Hopefully, though, your statements will help Officer Shirley and the others bring his attackers to the hands of the law."

It was weak consolation, considering the scale of things. Weaker still, when silence fell, and all could hear the unending tears of Twister's parents behind the door.

…

Tito met them at the hospital. They had never seen their jolly friend and cousin looking so _haggard _before, and it scared them. He tried to give a smile to them, but it only came out as a sad grimace, and he surrendered the pretense, instead reaching out and wrapping the three teens into a tight embrace. No words were spoken; none needed to be.

Raoul and Sandy were the first allowed in, and no one questioned or objected, nor were complaints given when a great deal of time had passed since their departure. When they finally returned, they seemed to share Tito's tired, ancient look about them, and they did not acknowledge the group. The doctor who followed on their heels stopped, however, her gaze sympathetic.

"You may come see him now," she informed them. "Only three at a time. Please keep in mind, though, that you should keep your voices down, and avoid crowding him or touching him at any cost. He is sedated, but he's in a very fragile state right now, and if he panics, you may have to leave."


	8. Chapter 7

Pi, Animal and Sputz couldn't contain their laughter as they held their victim firmly to the ground. Twister struggled in their hold, fear and pain fueling most of his fight, but despite now being eighteen, and stronger, the bullies still held the upper hand, and enough years of grudge to continue tormenting him. He couldn't shout for help, either. Even if the area hadn't been secluded beyond the sea wall, his mouth had been taped shut. Few people in Ocean Shores came to this wall, and fewer still would have any reason to come to the beach below.

"Aw, look at the baby! He's scared!" Pi cackled, pulling Twister up and wrapping him in a headlock. "Don't worry, little Maurice! We won't hurt you much more."

Animal threw a punch at Twister's stomach, and Twister doubled over with a pained groan. More blows rained down on him, before the trio threw him back to the ground. Pi climbed on top of him with his full weight, and shoved the boy's face into the sand. They'd been doing this for half an hour now, at least: beating him, taunting him, humiliating him. In their minds, they were playing out fantasies of just how happy Lars would be with them, for taking the initiative to teach Twister a lesson in authority.

Twister didn't have room in his battered mind for such lessons anymore. His whole body felt like it was on fire, and he was exhausted. He'd hoped far too long ago now that they'd eventually lose interest, but they showed no signs of letting up any time soon. He was on his last legs, and though he still fought back, it was in vain.

He didn't really recall when he passed out; it certainly followed the moment Pi twisted his arm around behind his back, but following the searing pain and dull crack from somewhere in his wrist, there was little he knew. When he next blinked his eyes open, he was still lying on his front, and the guys above him were still laughing. Someone grabbed him by that injured arm, and the pain was so great that he abruptly threw up, bile spilling up out the edges of the tape, and out his nose. He choked on it, until another hand quickly tore the tape away, leaving him desperately trying to spit out the remnants to draw breath.

The laughter was gone now. There was shouting nearby, aggressive and confusing to him. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to will away the hurt and the dizziness, but the world was a blur. He thought he heard someone yelling in Spanish, and he let out a hoarse chuckle, thinking that his father was yelling at Lars. But it couldn't be. He wasn't at home, and they weren't telling Lars off for teasing his younger brother. What would his dad be doing here, alive again? Did that mean his mom was alive, too?

The arguing stopped. All fell quiet, save for footsteps approaching in the sand, Twister tried to open his eyes again, but all he could see was a blurry shape, drawing closer. It stopped beside him, lowering itself into a crouch, and he felt fingers being pressed against his neck. His shivered; the fingers were cool, and his body felt like a raging fire.

"Lo siento, papa," he mumbled to the figure. "Lo siento..."

"Easy, dorkface. I'm not dad."

Only now did Twister find focus, at words so gently spoken that he was awed at whom had said them aloud. And there was Lars, grimacing down at him, and checking him over carefully. Twister frowned in confusion, and suddenly, the will to fight the spinning left him. He felt his eyes close again, and knew no more.

…

"Shh! You guys, keep it down! He needs to rest."

"Well, he's not resting anymore! Look! He's waking up-"

"Will you be _quiet_, Otto?!"

The hushed whispers surrounded him, drawing him out of a blank, empty world. Things were a little clearer now, though very confusing, as he looked around himself and saw he was no longer on the beach. Fear rose in him, but it was dull and flat, unable to breach a strange wall of relaxation that rushed through his veins. He turned his head, seeking the source of the whispers, and saw, to his mild surprise, the faces of his friends, as well as Raymundo and Noelani.

He moved to sit up, wanting to greet them, but the moment he did, pain shot through his body. It, like the fear, was shallow and faded, but present enough to make him cry out and stop. Ray was there, his hand shooting out and resting lightly against Twister's chest, easing him back down. Down again, onto a bed, he realized.

"Easy now, Twister. You're not ready to be moving around just yet."

"Where are we?" Twister mumbled, puzzled at how unsteady his words came out. "What am I doing here?"

"Lars saved you, dude," Otto said, trying to peer around the others. "It was wild. I thought he was gonna cry!"

"Lars? Where is he?"

"Downstairs. Probably crying."

Twister couldn't really register the humor. He recalled now, the blurry face of his brother coming into focus. And that voice, shouting in Spanish at former friends, to drive them away. It was confusing, and again, he found sense and feeling suppressed by something.

"Why's my head feel all fuzzy?"

Ray chuckled. "That'd be the morphine the hospital put into you before you got here."

"Oh. I'm high?"

"As a kite. But it'll help with your arm. You got it broken pretty badly there."

Twister looked down at himself, and blinked, seeing a fresh, white cast encasing his arm. He spotted writing on it, and smiled a little, recognizing the handiwork of his friends. He looked back to them, still smiling, but it faded as he saw the concern in their eyes.

"I'm okay, guys," he told them weakly, wincing as his words slurred. "Really."

"You weren't okay for awhile there," Sam told him, crossing his arms. "You didn't even wake up in the hospital, man. The doctors called it a healing sleep."

"Wait... how long has it been?"

"Well, the attack was yesterday," Ray put in. "The hospital released you into our care earlier this evening, and you've been here for a couple of hours already."

Twister stared. "I lost a whole day?"

Noelani leaned down and smiled at him, reaching out to rest a light hand against his face. "We're just glad you're awake now. We've been so worried – Lars most especially."

"Lars... can I see him?"

"Already here, dork."

Everyone turned, surprised, to see Lars leaning on the door frame, his eyes fixed on Twister. His expression was like stone, but his eyes showed a much more complex array of emotion – feelings of worry, and fear, and anger, above all. Twister met that look, trying to puzzle out what he was seeing, until Lars, tired of hanging back, shoved by Reggie and Otto, to reach Twister's side. The others pulled back a little, at unspoken agreement that they couldn't be part of this bond; a bond between brothers, no matter their differences and conflicts.


	9. Chapter 8

"Hey, dad?"

"Not now, honey. We've gotta get through this rush."

Reggie frowned, watching her father scurry to a table with an armful of orders. She knew Ray's dismissive response was just a result of the stress of things today, but it still irked her, especially now that it complicated another, far more serious problem. She glanced back to the source of the first issue, a terrible worry pulling at her core.

Twister looked sick with stress. He, along with the others, was working hard to help keep the Shack running, but the crowds were no ordinary trial for him. Whereas his friends simply saw an annoying gathering of shoobies, Twister had a much different struggle to deal with – one that made his battle steeper and tougher than any of them could ever imagine.

His encounter had happened six months ago, but the memories still burned into him as if it had happened only yesterday. Everyone had worried for him, when his symptoms had begun showing through, and when he'd finally broken down into a tearful, terrified confession, to friends and family all, about what was happening to him, they had rallied around him, desperate to keep him from sinking. It had worked, to an extent... but that didn't mean Twister was free of his pain. When the doctors got a good look at him, it was determined that he might well spend the rest of his life with this condition.

Fifty-nine people had died in that bombing, and Twister had been there. He'd been right at the heart of it, trying to see through smoke and blood and worse; trying, in spite of his own injuries, to help others, the way he had always instinctively done. He'd clawed his way through debris to screaming victims, and watched them lose their feeble hold on life. He'd seen the crumpled form of a child, lying far too still, with the mother, curled up and weeping.

Every single one of those souls followed him, wherever he went. His sleep was plagued by nightmares, and every now and then, his waking hours brought flashbacks that sometimes robbed him of the present altogether. Many times now, his companions had been somewhere with him, and seen him go through these agonizing episodes. They came in various degrees of severity, but all were painful to watch.

Reggie recognized the signs of a potential attack, and she no longer wished to wait. If Raymundo wouldn't listen, Tito probably would, and even if he didn't, Reggie was determined to get Twister somewhere quiet.

"Tito," she called, as subtly as possible.

Tito picked up on the seriousness in her tone almost instantly. He turned right around, meeting Reggie's eye, and she nodded towards Twister. They both looked, and saw the boy had withdrawn to the side of the building, his face utterly white, and his eyes darting all over the crowd. His chest had begun to visibly heave.

"Upstairs should be safe," Tito told Reggie quickly. "I'll get your dad to follow as soon as I can."

"Don't worry, I'll take care of him. Just tell dad where we are, so he doesn't freak. You guys have a lot to focus on right now without thinking we've run away."

"Okay, but I'll still send someone up soon. Good luck, Rocket Girl."

Reggie nodded her thanks, then hesitated no longer, throwing off her apron and speed-walking over to Twister. Even over the crowd, she could now hear a panicked whine starting up in the back of his throat. A few people had turned to stare, but for the most part, they ignored him, and Reggie eventually had to elbow her way through them to reach him.

"Twister, sweetie, look at me. Look this way. It's Reggie," she said firmly, taking Twister's face in her hands. "It's me. It's Reggie. Can you hear me?"

He might have seen her; it was hard to tell. He was looking at her, that much was clear, but his eyes had grown wild and unfocused.

"Listen to me, Twister," Reggie went on, "We're gonna get you somewhere safe. Okay? I need you to focus for a little bit longer. You're gonna be okay."

"Reggie?!" Twister cried, his voice hoarse and broken, as his eyes found panicked focus on her. "No, no, please, you gotta go! Please go. I don't want you to die. You have to go. Go! It's coming. It's coming _now!_"

"Shh. It's okay. I'm not going to die, Twister. You're _safe_. We're in Ocean Shores, at the Shore Shack. It's Friday afternoon. You're right here with me."

"They're bleeding, Reg..."

"That's just a memory. No one's bleeding. You're right here, and you're okay. Let's go upstairs. Come on. Just follow my lead."

She took his hands, scared by how much he was shaking; it was clear as daylight now that this was a bad episode, and if she didn't get him somewhere quieter, he might end up deteriorating too quickly. Fortunately, he was still half present for the time being – enough to know that she was there, guiding him upstairs, to Tito's place.

Away from the bustle and noise of the crowd, Reggie had better focus, and she coaxed Twister over to the nearest chair, at Tito's small dining table. In the quiet, his hyperventilation pressed at her mind, and she saw now that tears had started up in his eyes. She left him to sit, just for a moment, running to the kitchen to wet a towel with cold water. A cool cloth sometimes helped to ground him in these situations, and she hoped it would serve a decent purpose now.

When she returned, she eyed Twister carefully, assessing the situation. In the short time she was gone, he had abandoned the chair, and was now curled up in the corner, frantically clawing at his arms. He didn't speak, and Reggie's worry intensified; she recognized this repetitive action of his. In his mind's eye, there was blood on his arms, and he was trying to get it off. Sometimes, that meant scratching himself. Far worse, however, was that lack of speech, as he ordinarily would speak to his 'ghosts' at this point. That he'd gone nonverbal this soon was a bad sign.

She brought the cloth to him anyway, and folded it neatly into a narrow line, before applying it to the back of his neck. He barely reacted to it, as sounds of distress came from him: small cries, of little to no coherence, that stole away his years, and almost made him seem little again. Reggie reached out to stroke back his hair, and whispered reassurances to him, over and over. He had told them once that he could sometimes hear these, and it helped, so she went all in, long beyond feeling foolish or awkward.

For a brutal hour, Reggie sat with him like this, sometimes keeping at bay while he fought and growled at unseen devils, and other times moving in to hug him close when his distress cycled anew. She didn't care that her shirt became soaked with his tears, or when a tell-tale stain showed at the front of his pants. These things, she would never get used to, no – and no one should – but she had an iron will and determination to help her sick friend.

She began bracing herself to remain here indefinitely, for although it was clear as day from his sluggishness that Twister was exhausted, his attack was far from over. He was quieter, yes, but Reggie looked into his eyes, and saw he was still far away. This part, she always found the worst, because these were the times she saw him in most often: staring at nothing, jaw almost slack in shock, but mumbling hellish secrets under his breath.

Sometimes, his eyes would widen a little more, and his breathing would follow with a sharp intake, and she knew someone from the fifty-nine was approaching him. Talking to him. Begging for his help. Reggie did her best to speak to him and prevent the outcome of this kind of stage, because he could begin screaming, and she had her dad's restaurant to think of, as well as Twister's well-being. Ocean Shores locals might have been familiar and more forgiving with their young veteran, but the shoobies most certainly would not be.

Reggie's efforts were almost in vain. Twister jerked in place and pressed his back to the wall with a wild cry, before bringing his knuckles to his mouth. He howled into them, muffling the sound somewhat – enough, Reggie hoped, that people wouldn't begin prying in. She aided the effort by hugging him, squeezing tightly enough that it almost hurt her arms.

"They're not here, Twister," she whispered in his ear. "I know you see them, and they're very real to you, but they're memories. That's all they are. Come back to me, okay? Come back home."

As she spoke, she heard rapid footsteps on the stairs outside, and suppressed a curse, for fear it might upset Twister. The door opened behind her before she could turn, and she saw her father, pale and frightened, staring at the pair of them.

"Is he-"

Reggie shook her head in severe warning, as Twister gave another terrified cry. Ray froze, and waved behind him, indicating to someone to back up. Reggie assumed it was Tito or one of the other guys, but she did a double-take when Ray was suddenly and desperately shoved aside.

Lars, of all people, rushed over to his little brother, though he slowed to try to let Twister see him approach. Reggie couldn't decipher the look on Lars' face, and when he stopped and slowly crouched, she thought she saw him fighting tears.

"How long?" he whispered.

"An hour, maybe more," Reggie replied.

Lars took a calming breath, and Reggie withdrew a little, as he reached out and took Twister's hands, slowly lowering them from his brother's face. Twister locked onto him with those eyes of madness, but all of them were relieved to see a flash of recognition, and the boy's cries of terror lessened.

"Hey, Twister," Lars greeted gently. "You're gonna be okay. Everything's gonna be okay."

"Lars?"

Twister's voice was small, and so broken that it hurt everyone to hear it. Lars felt Twister tighten his grip, and did the same, holding fast, in spite of the pain.

"'_No nos dejes caer en tentacion y libranos del mal_,'" Lars recited softly. "Come on, little bro. With me. '_No nos dejes caer en tentacion y libranos del mal._'"

He repeated the phrase, over and over, like a mantra or song. His voice, he kept at a soothing rhythm, and he never faltered. It became so regular and steady that Reggie found herself fighting an urge to repeat it. Neither she nor Ray knew what it meant, but clearly, it was gradually getting through to Twister. At first, he'd remained in his flashback state, staring at Lars, but the rhythm caught him up, too, and he began to speak the words with his brother. One voice almost musical, one voice distraught and shaky; but together, nevertheless.

Reggie moved at the pace of a snail as she withdrew, letting Lars sit down with Twister. Her movement didn't disturb them, and the moment she reached her dad, Ray wrapped his arm around her shoulder, and they retreated carefully from the room, shutting the door. At the top of the steps, Ray immediately turned Reggie around, and drew her into a tight embrace.

"You did so good, Rocket Girl," he said quietly. "You did good. I know it's hard."

Reggie gave him no reply. When she reached the bottom of these stairs, she would put her tough defenses back up again. At this time, however, in the arms of her dad, she could afford a moment to simply allow herself to feel the emotions racing around in her head. She shook a little, but no tears came, and Ray held on as long as she needed.

When she had regained her balance, they both made their way back downstairs. Reggie blinked in surprise, seeing almost all the shutters closed around the restaurant, save for one exit that also provided a nice window to the sea. All was quiet, save for soft conversation from one table, where Tito, Otto and Sam sat, cradling cold drinks. They all looked up anxiously when Ray and Reggie approached.

"Is he okay?" Otto demanded, rising from his seat, before Sam pulled him back down. "You didn't leave him on his own...?"

"No," Tito shook his head. "I called Lars, in case he needed to be taken home."

"You... you called _Lars?_"

"The koa tree has many branches, but in the hurricane, strength comes from the roots." There was an awkward pause, and Tito sighed. "It means that despite their conflicts, Lars and Twister are still brothers. He'll look out for Twister, little cuz, don't you worry."

"It's true, Otto," Reggie said tiredly, as she found a seat, while Ray dove into the kitchen to get more drinks. "Twist _recognized_ him."

"Well, yeah-"

"Not like that. He was in the middle of a bad flashback, and he still managed to recognize Lars. He _spoke_, when he couldn't before. I was with him for an hour, and he never saw me. Just... just his ghosts."

They all fell still at this, and Tito set a comforting hand over Reggie's own. She managed to smile up at him, though it didn't reach her eyes. And when they saw this, both Sam and Otto gave her a friendly elbow, one side each, which finally banished some of that lingering worry. Ray, carrying drinks for himself and Reggie, grinned.

"I think when Twister's feeling better, he'll remember what you did for him today, Reg," he told her. "You were brave enough to stand by his side, and I'm proud of you."

"Easy on the mushiness, Raymundo," Otto muttered.

"Hey, give your sister some credit. She was helping him all by herself, while we were down here messing around with plates."

"You guys were swamped," Reggie countered. "And like you said, I handled it just fine on my own. He let me help him get somewhere safe, and he didn't try to run away from me. That's enough."

"What set him off?" Sam asked suddenly. "I didn't think anything here would be too triggering..."

"When he was... away... he said something about trying to warn the customers to get out. I think it just got too crowded and overwhelming, and he ended up thinking he was looking at... at the people who died."

They became gloomy again.

"I still don't get why they can't just give him medicine for this," Otto grumbled. "They gave him those sedative shots! Isn't there a chill-pill he can take, or something, so he doesn't have to keep going through this crap?"

Ray rubbed his forehead. "We've been over this, Otto. It's just not that simple. This kind of thing needs time, patience and therapy to heal, and the sedatives are for serious emergencies only."

"It's not an emergency when he's up there screaming at things nobody else can see?"

"It's an emergency when he's in danger of hurting himself from the flashbacks."

Otto stilled. "Like that time at Mt. Baldy..."

Ray nodded sadly. "Yeah."

…

The gang marched to school in unison, kicking their feet a little, for it was a perfect day, with perfect surfing conditions on the ocean, and they would be stuck in classes for most of it. Still, their spirits were relatively high. Even Twister seemed to be doing better, and smiled and laughed along with Otto and Reggie as Sam told terrible puns.

Anyone observing them without knowing them would notice the way the other three stuck to that red-haired boy. It was subtle, but they walked as if they were protecting him; as if he were wounded somehow, and any outside measure might cause harm to him. It was not all that far from the truth, for Twister's triggers were varied, and there was no real way to tell when something might impact him too deeply.

There was also the matter of rumor.

None of them knew how, or when, but news of Twister's most recent brush with PTSD had spread like wildfire around the school. Otto, Sam and Reggie had spent all last week deflecting the questions and whispering that invariably followed them around, and now that Twister was back, they worried about how these reactions would impact him. Certainly, he didn't outright appear too bothered by it yet, but there was a skittishness about him sometimes, especially when other students would come rushing by, causing him to glance up sharply.

After one such occurrence, Reggie nudged his arm gently. "It's alright, Twist. If anyone bothers you too much, we'll get them to go away."

"Thanks, Reg," he smiled lightly. "I guess that doesn't count for teachers trying to make me catch up on homework, huh?"

"Not a chance!" Otto said. "I have enough homework to fill the house with."

"I _might_ be persuaded to help you, if you need it," Sam sighed.

"Really?! You're the best, Squidman," Twister's grin widened, before it dropped again. "Um... how do I persuade you?"

Sam chuckled, trading knowing looks with the others. "Don't worry about it, Twister."

Twister pestered him about it all the way to the school entrance. Sam was just about to give in, and tell him he'd been pulling his leg all along, when Otto and Reggie – who had been laughing – abruptly went quiet and stopped. Sam and Twister looked up, and the gang saw they were faced with a large group of students. They were all staring openly at Twister, who immediately withdrew a step, all his friendly and easygoing attitude draining away. Both the size of the crowd, and the way they looked at him, put him on edge in an instant. Reggie reached out subtly and squeezed his hand for reassurance.

"What are you staring at?" Otto demanded. "You never seen a skateboarder before?"

"Isn't he supposed to be in a mental hospital or something?" someone remarked, to a ripple of nods from the crowd.

"Yeah, we don't really want a crazy dude screaming and talking to thin air."

"I heard he wet himself. Maybe he needs a diaper."

"I bet he attacks people, like soldiers do when they go crazy."

"Hey, it's Maurice, isn't it? Or do they call you Twister? You need a new nickname. How about 'Bomberman'?"

Twister paled, backing up further in both shame and fear, but Reggie and Sam held fast by his side, while Otto was already up the steps, seeking the people who had spoken. His glare silenced a number of the students. He stepped right up to those who maintained their defiance, and used his height to his advantage.

"You think that's funny?" he snapped, as his eyes locked onto one girl in particular. "How about you, Kayla? Maybe I'll come to school tomorrow with some of my friends, and start giving you nicknames. How's your mom, by the way?"

"_Easy_, Otto," Reggie warned.

"No. I'm not gonna go easy," Otto raved, as the girl named Kayla looked away, downcast. "This is bullshit. People fucking _died_. Why the fuck would you be such a lame-o and make fun of that? Are you people sick or something?"

"No, but your friend is!"

A few nervous laughs followed this, but went still again under Otto's fury. The sway of opinion, however, was not in his favor, and more and more kids were beginning to defy him. Otto clenched his fists, daring them to come forward, and the air was heavy and tense.

Reggie and Sam both felt Twister brush by them, but didn't register the motion until he was already heading up the stairs. As he walked, some people withdrew from him, muttering under their breaths, but he ignored them, continuing until he was standing side by side with his friend. Otto stared at him questioningly, perplexed, but Twister simply looked back with an expression that downright scared him. The experience and terror was deep in Twister's eyes, but it was coupled with a quiet, tired resignation, which he directed to the crowd.

"They're dead," he said simply; flatly. "Fifty-nine. All dead. Some died screaming. Some of them were missing pieces of themselves. One of them was six years old, and her mama was there, trying to get what was left of her to wake up. She couldn't see that there was no head; no legs. She just saw her little girl, and she couldn't understand why she wouldn't wake up. All there was was this little purple backpack, melted onto her back. It was _melted_. They couldn't get it off her. But that's how her mama knew it was her."

Stillness filled the air now. No one dared to breathe, and the impact of the shocking brutality of Twister's description showed in a few faces – his friends included, for none of them had heard him speak so thoroughly on this before.

"Hey, Kayla," he continued, catching her attention with this out-of-place greeting. "I'm sorry about your mom. It's heavy, isn't it? Carrying her death around like that. The dead weigh a lot, it's kinda crazy how much. You ever see her in a crowd sometimes? Like, you know it's impossible, she's gone, but you swear to god you see her, and then it only turns out to be someone who sort of looks like her."

Kayla's jaw fell, and she began weeping openly, bringing her hands to cover her mouth. "How do you know that?!" she demanded. "How the fuck do you know that...?"

Twister looked at her as if he were seeing through to her soul. "I see them, too, sometimes. And when I don't see them, I'm carrying them. And they're heavy. Fifty-nine people are fucking heavy as hell."

Another long silence followed this. His words had been filled with the very weight he spoke of, and it was a weight that, somehow, he managed to cast onto the crowd of students. No one whispered; no one stared in judgment, or sneered. Each face was pale and blank, and Twister shut his eyes briefly to look away from them – away from the dead he saw reflected in them.

Hands on his shoulders brought him back to the present, and he opened his eyes again, slowly looking up, into the faces of Otto, Sam and Reggie. They met his gaze with sympathy and something not unlike pride, and he found that he had never before appreciated them as much as he did now. While the other students were still reeling with the intensity of Twister's confession, these three already knew his ghosts. They had seen him at his lowest points, and they remained steadfast, always by his side, the way they all were for each other over the years.

In silence, they made their way into the school, leaving a sea of confused, horrified, and downright ashamed faces behind them.

The minute they were out of range, Twister picked up the pace, the stoic composition he'd somehow mustered up to face the crowd dissipating rapidly, as reality set in. He made directly for the nearest bathroom, almost at a run, and his friends hesitated, until Sam and Otto went in after him, taking point, while Reggie turned her back to the entry, to deter other students from entering.

Sam and Otto cringed as they entered to the sound of their friend throwing up. They rushed over to the stall, to find Twister on his knees over the toilet, retching and heaving. Otto paused again, grimacing, but Sam wedged his way between the gap, supporting Twister before he could fall. They waited with him patiently, while he recovered, and when he was done, they pulled him back, helping him over to the sink.

"I'm sorry," he said hoarsely, running water over his face.

"Hey, nothing to apologize for, bro," Otto said easily. "You okay?"

"Not really. But I guess that's as close as I'm gonna get, huh?"

"Hey, man, look on the bright side," Sam offered, "I think you might have just aged all those people by, like, 20 years."

Otto raised an eyebrow. "_That's_ your bright side?"

"It is if you consider how lame they were today. They could do with a little reality check. You good, Twist?"

"Yeah. Yeah, let's go. Where's Reg, by the way?"

"Dude, it's the _boy's_ bathroom," Otto reminded him.


	10. Chapter 9

Twister woke with a startled jerk, crying out abruptly. He regretted the action almost instantly, as every pain in his body made itself known all at once. His throat, dry and aching, bade him to start coughing uncontrollably, which only hurt more, and left him gasping and lying still, his head pressed into the ground.

He remembered now, why it was ground – and not his bed – that he was lying on. He shut his eyes, trying to suppress a whole other pain that welled up in his chest. There was no stopping it, either, and he found he wasn't all that ashamed of his tears anymore, as they fell freely down his face.

Last night came back in one terrible, awful rush. The hours he'd spent pacing his room, trying to review what he would say to his parents. The eventual showdown. The tears that came from his mother's eyes, as she began asking herself, and asking God, what she'd done wrong. Why was her son like this? Lars, standing there, his face twisted into an expression of uncertainty and fear. And Raoul's face, darkening into a storm. The way he cut his son off mid-speech, and began to scream:

_You shame this family. You shame me! It's disgusting – unnatural. No son of mine will ever be inclined to such sin!_

Sin, he'd called it. Sinful, filthy behavior. He'd repeated it over and over, as he'd slammed Twister into the wall. Howled it into his ears as he tore the boy's shirt off, and began to strike him with a belt. The welts seemed to burn with more intensity as he remembered, and Twister shivered, drawing his knees up to his chest.

They hadn't wanted to cast him out, at first. While he'd lain on the floor, barely conscious, Raoul had finally crouched by him, and offered him a chance to redeem himself. _Confess and repent_, he'd said, or something along those lines. _You can change your ways and become normal again_. And in the confused remnants of his last defiance, Twister had refused.

That's what TV and school had taught him. You stood up for yourself, and stayed proud, and everything would be okay.

He'd been given a few minutes to pack his things. Minutes, to drag himself off the floor, and grab a backpack with shaking, bloodied hands. He'd had the sense of mind to grab his helmet, his board, his blades, a few clothes, and some toiletries, but in the end, Raoul had grown impatient. His grip on the back of his son's – his _ex_-son's – neck had left bruises, and then the door had slammed behind him.

He remembered walking. Just walking, in the middle of the night, in a completely shocked daze, still bleeding and bruised. He'd considered so many options: Knock on the doors of his friends' houses. Go to Tito's place. Hell, he'd even thought about going to Conroy's trailer, or seeing if the homeless shelter would take him. In the end, shame and fear had overcome him, and he'd fled, all the way to the sea. It was there, exhausted and weeping, he'd finally lain himself down under the pier, out of sight, and out of the tide line.

It was dawn now, and he supposed the sun had woken him up. _Very_ slowly, he willed himself to sit up, just for the sake of being out of the sand, which felt like it's been glued to his skin. As he looked down at himself, he realized this wasn't far from the truth: blood from his injuries had mingled with the sand, leaving him covered. He experimentally tried to brush it off a particularly nasty gash on his knuckle, and bit back another cry as it flared with pain.

Feeling ill, he looked to the sea, and to the beach around him. No one was in sight. Even Tice's lifeguard shack was closed up at this hour. Good.

It took him at least ten minutes to climb to his feet, using the helpful aid of the pier post near him. His back hurt the most of all, and when an unsteady step sent him into the post, back first, he nearly passed out. Somehow, he fought, patiently recovering, his eyes now fixed on the sea.

This was going to hurt a lot more, and he needed every ounce of his strength to do it.

The water was cold this time of year, though it didn't yet carry an honest winter bite. He ignored the surge of adrenaline, and the fear in his heart, as he waded in. Already, the salt burned the scattered injuries on his legs, and he stopped, taking several long, deep breaths. He cleared his mind – a task that wasn't particularly difficult, he could admit to – and allowed himself to drop completely.

He screamed. He couldn't help it. He managed to silence himself almost instantly after it happened, but his whole body seized and spasmed with the burning. His head went under several times, and he thrashed, dragging himself back to shore a little, scared of drowning. The waves washed over him, each movement sending more searing agony into him. Yet he forced himself to remain in place, and with violently shaking hands, began rubbing water over his arms.

His body was slow to get used to the salt, and he had to remain on his knees for the duration of the cleaning, unable to stay upright. He managed to clear both his arms, his face, and his chest. His back was another matter entirely, for blood still glued some of the fabric of his shirt to his body. He stuffed his hand into his mouth and bit down as he pulled, as gently as possible, to get his shirt off. Involuntary squeaks of agony escaped him for every tiny pull, and he had to stop, several times.

When he'd cleaned as much as he could, he found his way out of the water again, stumbling in a not-so-straight line back to where his pack and gear lay. He made it halfway before he went to his knees again. He began retching emptily, which did his body no favors, and simply kept him in the cycle of nausea. When he finally threw up, only water and bile came up, reminding him that it had been at least a day since he'd eaten.

He didn't remember getting back to his pack so soon. One minute, he was recovering from being sick, and the next, he found himself sitting in the sand again, his shoulder propped up against the post that had sheltered him and his stuff. Confused, he looked down at himself, and found his clothes were a little drier since his dip in the ocean. The sun had come up a little more, and he recognized that he'd passed out at some point.

Warily, he managed to shift and lean forward, to look down the beach again. It was still completely deserted, but Tice was raising the panels on his lifeguard hut, and Twister quickly ducked his head out of sight again, wincing at the sudden motion.

He didn't know what to do. Should he walk out there, and risk talking to Tice? It would surely lead to questions; questions he wasn't sure he'd be able to answer without telling the truth, or letting it slip. There would most certainly be calls made to his parents, and... he wasn't sure he could handle that. Not now, not when his mind and heart were still reeling. And what if Raoul hit him again?

He touched his bruised face, reality swiftly racing to catch up with him. He had _school_ today. He had hockey practice! He was even supposed to go around to Sam's house for pizza this evening. More potential for questions. More complications. He sighed heavily. Maybe he could tell people he was in a skating accident? It seemed plausible, especially since he could take advantage of his reputation to tell the lie. The Village Idiot wanted to skate in the dark, and beefed it hard. Yeah, that sounded good enough.

Resolved, and with his cover story in mind, he began thinking of the more immediate future. The thought of pizza at Sam's had made his mouth water, which in turn reminded of just how godawfully _thirsty_ he was. Were there water fountains around the boardwalk? He couldn't remember, because he'd always had his water bottle before. With a pang, he recalled seeing it next to his nightstand, where he'd left it in favor of grabbing his skateboard and blades. How was he supposed to get anything to eat or drink now?

Aching, and moving like an old man, he hooked his fingers through a strap on his pack, dragging it over to himself. He wanted to change out of his clothes, at least – put something cleaner on, where blood stains wouldn't broadcast themselves to the world. _That_ particular mission took a lot longer than his swim, for the moderate complexity of getting his limbs into the clothes required movements his body almost completely lacked. By the grace of another minor miracle, though, he got himself dressed, and rolled up his other outfit into the bottom of the pack.

He waited there another hour, hoping that his guess of the time was relatively correct, and that the beach would at least display a few faces for him to blend into. Sure enough, a few shoobies turned up, as well as a group of wetsuit-clad surfers. Tice had his eyes firmly fixed on the surfers, so Twister grabbed his gear, and moved out.

In his mind's eye, he had been able to reach the Shore Shack in minutes. The reality was that he moved at a snail's pace, unable to really go faster without stumbling. He kept as upright as he could, though it was agony to do so, and swinging his arms along as he normally might was almost too much. He made it a mission to focus on one step at a time, feeling a little like a cartoon his mom used to make him watch, where Jesus was depicted marching through the sand for what felt like forever.

The thought of his mom made his heart ache again, and the thought of Jesus made the shame and fear hit him like a ton of bricks. Was he going to Hell now? He'd thought Jesus was supposed to be about love, but, he supposed, there were lots of things that Jesus didn't love, like murder, cheating, or lying.

Or homosexuality.

It was a sin, his dad had said, and judging by his current situation, it was a pretty bad sin. But Twister didn't feel like it was sinful. In fact, it felt right, in a way he couldn't really put his finger on. Trying to make himself feel any different was like trying to stop blinking, or trying to write with his left hand, instead of his right one.

That got him thinking about school again. He'd left all his homework and stuff at the house... how was he going to explain that one? He began thinking of ways he could get pencils, pens and some paper, when he suddenly found his forward motion being stopped. With his head down, and his eyes to the ground, he didn't quite grasp why he was no longer moving. As his feet tried to carrying him on again, he felt something holding onto his shoulders.

Slowly, he looked up, and found a very familiar, very frightened face staring into his own. It was Tito, he realized, and he was saying something, only Twister's ears were ringing, and he couldn't quite make it out. Dumbly, he kept staring at Tito, until the old Hawaiian – examining him critically – suddenly grabbed his hand, and began leading him on.

Twister wasn't quick enough to catch on to the fact that he should move with Tito, and the motion pulled at his back. He choked out a cry of pain, and stumbled, finally losing his battle to stay on his feet. Tito turned sharply again, and lunged, catching the teen under the arms before he could completely hit the ground. Twister's hearing returned in that moment.

"-cuz? Come on, talk to Uncle Tito. What's wrong? What happened?"

"Is he okay, Tito? His face..."

"Help me help him, bruddah," Tito said over his shoulder to Ray, as he carefully steadied Twister on his feet. "Let's get you sitting down, eh?"

"I fell," Twister mumbled, remembering his cover story, but lacking strength to elaborate, or clarity to understand timing.

Ray appeared beside him, taking his other arm, and both men escorted him quickly into the shelter of the Shore Shack. Twister noted distantly that his friends were there, on their feet, and staring openly at him. Their faces were pale, mouths hanging open, and he frowned again, wondering whether his attempt at walking had really been so bad. Then Tito and Ray had him in a chair, and he was relieved not to have to be walking anymore. He could do without them crowding around him, though, and when Tito crouched in front of him and began prying fingers around his face, he pulled away weakly.

"Hey. Hold still."

"Hurts," Twister mumbled back.

"Twister, _what happened?_" Ray demanded. "You said you fell...?"

"Yeah, fell down on my board. Sorry, Raymundo. I feel okay now, though."

Ray frowned at the slurring in the boy's words, exchanging a look with Tito. "Where did this happen?"

"Uh... the boardwalk."

"...the boardwalk."

"Uh-huh."

"You're not a great liar, Mr. Rodriguez," Ray told him sternly, folding his arms.

Twister cringed under the direct accusation, and they all saw a flash of terror behind his eyes. It was gone in a blink, but it _had_ been there, visible, despite the swollen bruises that covered most of his face. They initially thought it had been a fear of getting caught in a lie, but when Ray moved toward him, to grab a seat, and see if he could wring a confession from the boy, Twister flinched.

It was the slightest thing, and the kids didn't notice it, but it sent a horrible chill through both Ray and Tito. Ray froze in place, the hair on his arms and neck standing straight up. He and Tito shared another look, and Ray experimentally resumed his motion. Sure enough, the kid flinched again, and began to eye Ray with a wary confusion that sent a fractured splinter into Ray's heart.

Keeping his motions much slower now, he pulled up the chair, and scooted in awkwardly next to Tito, who had stopped his fussing to listen.

"I need you to tell me the truth, Twister," Ray said gently. "I know this isn't from skateboarding. It's okay if you don't want to explain the whole story, and if you want, you don't have to tell everyone, but I'd like you to try to tell me, so I can help you."

Twister swallowed, glancing shiftily away. His breathing got faster, and his body language screamed his unspoken fears; his desire to bolt from them. The men got the message, and backed away a little, while waving the other kids back. The trio remained quiet and obeyed, catching on that something bad had happened to their friend – something that had nothing to do with sports.

"Um... c-can I have some water first?" Twister blurted, his voice strained.

Tito nodded, rising with careful, deliberate motions, and returned a short time later with a large plastic soda cup. Twister eyed it with unsubtle desperation, and Tito had barely released it before the boy was drinking greedily from it. Tito clucked his tongue, reaching out to slow him down, which only drew another flinch.

"Have to take it easy, little cuz," Tito said softly. "You'll make yourself sick if you drink too fast. Little sips, _slowly_."

Twister nodded hesitantly as Tito withdrew his hands, but restrained his thirst. He suddenly looked down, and shame overtook his features.

"I... I dunno if I'm allowed to tell you about this," he said, thinking of the first thing that came to his mind.

Ray grimaced. "What makes you say that?"

Twister was silent, even when Ray prompted him again. His silence, and the tidbit of information, were enough to form more suspicions, and Ray, seeking to try to comfort him, reached out and set his hand on the kid's back.

None of them were expecting Twister's cry of agony, or the reflexive spasm that struck his body when that hand made contact. The cup of water went to the floor, and Twister very nearly fell out of his chair, his eyes squeezed shut as he held himself close, hissing through his teeth.

"He's hurt," Tito observed.

Ray gave him a look that screamed _no shit, Tito_. "Twister, can you show us where else you're hurt? Right now, please. If you don't, I'm gonna need to call for help."

"No!" Twister gasped, despite his pain. "Please don't, Raymundo!"

"Why not?" Tito asked him gently. "You're in pretty serious pain."

To everyone's alarm, tears began to fall from the kid's eyes, and he gripped his hair in frustration.

"Hey, hey," Ray soothed, "Talk to us. Tell us where it hurts. We're here for you, okay? No matter what happens, we're here."

"That goes for us, too," Otto put in bravely, troubled by his best friend's distress. "Just tell him what happened, Twist. We got your back."

"That's what _they_ said!" Twister snapped back, with sudden and startling anger, his voice broken. "I was trying to tell them, and they said they'd love me no matter what. No matter what! A-and then... then I told them, and th-they didn't... they didn't. They don't love me," the realization hit him as he spoke, "They... they don't love me anymore. They _lied_."

Confusion reigned for all, save Tito. Wise Tito, who caught on to all kinds of undercurrents. "Is this about your family?" he asked plainly; directly. "Your mom and dad?"

Twister looked startled, and stared at Tito, teary eyes wide; scared. "H-how do you know? Do you... oh, god, Tito, please, I'm sorry!" he said suddenly. "I don't mean to be like this, but I can't stop. I know it's a sin. I know it's wrong, but I-I can't be any other way! Please, I'm so sorry... I'm sorry..."

"Hey, slow down, little cuz. Okay? Slow down. What's this about? Start from the beginning."

Twister was exhausted. His cover story had fallen completely and utterly flat from the get-go, and now he was in serious trouble. He glanced every which-way, over the faces of his friends, uncertain what to read or see in them, and unwilling to face the anger and sorrow he'd met when he'd tried to speak to his parents. If Tito didn't know what he was talking about, then how had he known about his family? He began to panic, and focus left him. He had to get out – get far away from here, and find a place to hide away.

He acted on the feeling, trying to stand, but his body wouldn't obey. One too many times today already, he'd pushed himself too far, and there was no strength left in him. He only managed to rise a little before collapsing back in his chair, and a sob of terror left his throat. There was no choice; he was trapped, stuck and facing the end of everything he knew and loved.

Ray and Tito had moved to stop him, but when they saw he couldn't run off, they decided, there and then, that stories would have to wait. Ray withdrew to the back to retrieve a first aid kit, while Tito began trying to coax Twister to take off his shirt. Twister remained uncooperative, and spoke no more, instead squirming as Tito resorted to direct action.

"Easy, _easy_," he soothed the boy. "I'm just gonna lift up your shirt, so we can have a look at your injury, okay?"

"Maybe that's not such a good idea," Reggie said uneasily, as she, Otto and Sam resisted the urge to crowd around Twister. "He's scared, Tito..."

"I know... I know. But if he's too badly hurt to run away, he needs our help. In fact, little cuzes, come on over. Talk to him for me."

The resistance fell away. The trio almost raced for Twister, before checking their response, as Tito held up a warning hand. More slowly, they came to him, offering reassurances, and Twister froze in place, watching them like a terrified rabbit watches the approach of a predator. Tito took advantage of his stillness. With delicate care that seemed out of place with his massive hands, he lifted Twister's shirt...

And stopped dead.

"Oh, no..." he whispered, sorrow tinging his voice.

They could all see why Twister had reacted so badly to Ray's hand. The skin of his back was barely visible for the sheer amount and severity of criss-crossed welts there. Many had clearly been bleeding badly at some point, and all were inflamed to an angry, deep red and purple. Twister shook under the scrutiny.

"What happened to him?" Otto demanded, anger rising. "Did somebody... did they _hit _him?! I'll _kill_ whoever did this..."

"Enough, Otto," Reggie told him sharply, though her voice shook. "You're scaring him."

"Sammy," Tito interrupted, "Go tell Raymundo to hurry up."

Silence fell after this, as Sam raced to the back to recall Ray. Twister hid his head under his arms, lucid enough in his fear to start realizing the amount of shame he felt at his secret being exposed like this. Reggie was the first to become fed up with this, and – ignoring warning looks from the others – took her dad's chair, and reached out to Twister, bringing her hands to his, and pulling them down. He reacted as if to pull away, at first... but, as he felt no malice in the touch, he hesitantly gripped her hands back, and looked up in confusion.

"I don't know who lied to you about being there for you," Reggie whispered to him, looking him directly in the eye, "But I promise you, Twister, we won't abandon you, no matter what. We won't lie. And we won't _ever_ do something like this to you. I know that you know this; you doubt it right now, because you're not feeling good, and you're scared, but you know it. We're here. Don't _ever_ doubt that."

She didn't really get time to gauge whether the words had taken hold; Ray and Sam returned in that moment, at a bit of a run, slowing as they came close to Twister. He still eyed their approach, and Reggie felt his grip tighten painfully, but he didn't flinch this time. Ray, already opening the first aid kit, paled as he finally saw the injuries on Twister's back.

"Okay," he breathed. "Alright. Reg, you have his hands, good. Otto, Sam, can you sit with him, too, please? Tito, keep holding up his shirt. And Twist... listen to me a moment, okay? I need to put some disinfectant on these. I wish I could say otherwise, kiddo, but... it's going to hurt."

Twister still gave no verbal reply, but he shut his eyes, taking a shaky breath, and more tears fell down his face.

"I'll let you know when I'm gonna pour it on," Ray told him. "You just keep on breathing, nice and slow."

"We're right here, buddy," Otto told him, though his voice was small, and his eyes widened at the bottle of medical disinfectant that Ray drew from the kit. "Can't... can't we give him something, for the pain?"

"I wish I could, Rocket Boy, but I wanna get these cleaned as soon as possible to prevent infection, and the only medicine we have is basic aspirin, which will take too long to to take effect," he took a steadying breath, "Okay, Twister," he went on nervously, "Here we go."

Ray began pouring slowly, taking great care, but even so, the moment the first drop hit his injuries, Twister lurched forward in his seat, drawing in a shuddering, agonized gasp, eyes wide. Tito, Reggie, Sam and Otto all lunged to hold him in place, and a second later, a horrible, animalistic, _tortured_ cry tore from his throat, frightening the life out of everyone. It evolved fully into wailing not long after, and caused everyone within hearing distance outside the Shack to stop and stare around in search of the source.

As Ray finished covering the wounds, that cry died down suddenly, falling to an exhaled groan, then a weak sigh, as Twister went utterly limp in the arms of his friends.

"He passed out!" Sam reported in fright. "Raymundo, he's out, he's unconscious!"

"I know. It's okay. Get him lowered to the ground, and keep him on his front. Tito, need you to call an ambulance now. I'm gonna keep treating his wounds here."

Tito took care to help the teens lower Twister down, before dashing to the phone. While Ray began ripping open bandage packaging, Reggie, Sam and Otto went directly to some of their own medical training, keeping an eye on their friend's vitals. Twister wasn't out long, though he was groggy and confused as he regained consciousness.

"Hey," Reggie whispered to him, reaching out to stroke back his hair. "Welcome back. You went out on us for a minute there. Just keep still, alright?"

"Reg...?" Twister slurred, his eyes unfocused. "I'm sorry..."

"Shh, it's okay. There's nothing to be sorry for, alright? You just relax. Dad's gonna try to put some bandages on now. I promise it won't hurt as much as the antiseptic."

"It's a sin," Twister mumbled, earning confused looks from his friends. "Th... that's why they got mad. Jesus hates it, 'cause it's a sin... 'n now I'm g... going to Hell."

"What do you mean?"

Sam set a hand on Reggie's arm. "He's probably pretty delirious. He doesn't know what he's saying."

"No, I... I know," Twister said, putting as much strength into his voice as he could. "I'm going to Hell because... because of what I love. It's wrong, it's so wrong... but I c... can't be any other way. It's the same, they're the same, it doesn't matter if th-they're girls or... guys... I can't tell, there's no difference, I'm sorry. It's both, I see them both, and love them both, I'm so sorry-"

He gave another, weak moan of agony, as Ray began applying bandages to his back. Sam and Otto were still trying to puzzle through their friend's nearly incoherent speech, but Reggie went still, her mouth hanging open as clarity struck her. She caught her father's eye.

"What is it, Reg?" Ray asked gently.

"He... he's... oh, god, they didn't," she said, more to herself than anyone else, looking down at Twister in shock. "They _can't_ have..."

"Reggie?"

"He's bisexual, dad," Reggie swallowed the rising lump in her throat, feeling tears stinging her eyes. She kept running her hand through Twister's hair, desperate now beyond anything to comfort him, "And I think... I think his parents... I mean, they're _hardcore_ Catholic. I think he told them, and... and this is how they responded."

Ray's face matched Reggie's. "That's one heck of an assumption-"

"But you think so, too, don't you?"

"We're not gonna jump to conclusions right now. We'll get him to explain after he gets treatment."

Reggie wanted to argue, and she knew it was mostly because she was upset. Not at Twister, or at his confession, but at what she was now beginning to see as a cruel and pointless injustice. She couldn't help but wonder: had he been this badly _beaten_ solely because of his sexuality? She didn't want to believe anyone could do that, especially not to their son.

Otto and Sam, who had been sitting in shock, finally broke free, both looking to Reggie, perplexed, before staring back down at Twister. Twister had closed his eyes again, sweat beading on his forehead, and was too out of it now to notice his friends' reactions.

"He's _gay?_" Otto squeaked.

"Bisexual, actually, though it's still possible he was talking about something else," Sam corrected absently. "It explains a lot, if it's true."

"Back up. You _knew_ this?!"

"I suspected, yeah."

Otto blinked. "Uh... do you ever think he... y'know... got interested in us?"

Reggie rolled her eyes, and turned, glaring such daggers that both Otto and Sam went very still. "He was beaten so badly he _passed out_ from _pain_," she said, her tone dangerously calm, "And all you can talk about it whether he's into you? Grow up, Otto. I promised him we'd be there for him, no matter what. Don't you _dare _make a liar out of me. Not to him."

"Easy, Reg," Otto held up his hands nervously. "I'm not gonna shun him or anything; he likes who he likes. It'll just take some getting used to."


	11. Chapter 10

"Hey guys! Wait up!"

"Oh, god, don't look now," Reggie muttered to Sam and Otto.

Josh caught up to the trio easily, having spent his years trying to perfect his athletic skills. He had never matched up to the 'Fantastic Four' of Ocean Shores, nor Lars' gang, but it never stopped him from trying. It would have been an endearing trait, had Josh not begun as a complete tool, and evolved into a massive douche. High school only brought out more of his mean streak, and he often took it out on Sam – something the Rocket Gang didn't tolerate.

"What do you want, Josh?" Sam said tiredly, as the boy caught up to them.

"Oh, not much! Just wondering how you guys are doing."

"None of your business," Otto snapped.

"What about that other guy... what was his name again? You know. The forgettable beaner." The three friends glared daggers at Josh, who sneered back. "Though maybe he's not so forgettable anymore, is he? Don't you worry he'll try to flirt with you?"

"Literally none of that is any of your business!" Reggie growled at him.

"Ew, I wonder if he ever tries to look at _me?_ Did you know he likes both girls and guys? That's a lot of sleeping around, even for a fag. Gives a _whole_ other meaning to wetback, right?"

Josh had little time to react, before Otto was upon him, shoving him all the way back and slamming him into a locker. He put his elbow to Josh's throat, with a fire from hell blazing in his eyes.

"I'm gonna say this once," he hissed, "If I ever catch so much as a _rumor_ that you called him that, or anything else, ever again, I will fucking skin you alive."

All of Josh's cockiness disappeared, as he realized the seriousness of Otto's threat. Behind them, Sam and Reggie watched on. Once upon a time, they might have stopped Otto from exploding like this, but the slurs Josh had used against their friend had utterly erased sense and sympathy. A few passing students in the halls watched on, as well, eager to see two familiar foes fighting.

"C'mon, man!" Josh squeaked. "It was just a joke – you know, just Joshin'!"

"You don't get to joke about that. _Ever_. You racist piece of shit."

"I call 'em what I see 'em! He _is_ Mexican, isn't he? Did I get the region wrong? Where is he from? They all look the same. But he should probably go back to Mexico."

"He's more local than you are, you trash shoobie."

At this, Otto released him, letting him slide to the floor. He didn't bother looking back, so his only warning of the counter-attack was Reggie's shout of alarm. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor, with Josh on top of him, raining down strikes to the back of his head.

The growing crowd began to howl and chant, and Reggie and Sam waded in, both trying to remove Josh from Otto. They were hardly successful, for Otto had already rolled and thrown Josh off, and lunged with his own attacks, forcing them to withdraw to avoid being caught in the fray. The boys struck hard and fast, each getting in a hit, and each tiring the other out. During a lull in the scuffle, they backed away from each other, circling and glaring unblinkingly.

"I'd almost say you fight like a queer, but that's your best bro!" Josh spat, through a mouthful of blood from his leaking nose. "Bet you haven't seen him try to fight. He didn't even get any hits in before my crew took him down."

"You're a bad liar," Otto panted back. "I bet he kicked your ass."

Josh laughed dryly. "You don't know, do you? About what happened to little _Maurice_ yesterday. Oh, this is rich!"

Otto charged again, quite literally, his head and shoulders down for a running blow. Josh took the brunt of it in the gut, and went flying to the floor. Without faltering, Otto was on top of him, frantically striking, blind with fury.

"The _fuck_ did you do?!" he screamed. "What did you do to him, you bastard?!"

"Otto, stop!"

"He never did anything to anyone! You fuck!"

"OTTO!"

Otto tuned out the shouts, bound only to a single purpose: to beat into pulp the face below him. Josh stopped resisting, going still under the assault, but Otto didn't care. He even kept swinging when someone outright _lifted_ him, clear off the floor, and pinned his arms to his sides to drag him away. Still enraged, he began trying to pummel this interloper, if only to get them out of the way.

"I'll KILL YOU, Josh!" he snarled. "You hurt my bro?! I'll _kill_ you!"

"OTTOMAN! Stop it! It's me! It's Twister, dude! You gotta stop! I'm okay!"

"Let go!" Otto squirmed in the hold, almost breaking free, before he found himself being pinned to the lockers. "Fuck you, let me kill him!"

Twister scowled, and, daring to let go for a moment, shook his friend, hard, spinning him around to face him. Otto drew back a fist, ready to attack this newer, easier target... and faltered, as he finally saw his best friend, standing before him, looking scared.

"It's me," he told Otto weakly. "Just chill a minute."

Otto complied – and only for a minute, because when he saw the _state_ Twister was in, his fury rose right back up again. Twister was sporting a nasty black eye, and there were obvious bruises around his neck and shoulders; ones that wouldn't have come from anything else but strangle-holds. His arms and hands, too, bore bruises, as well as nasty-looking cuts. Otto's jaw fell, as he looked Twister up and down.

"What did he do to you?" he whispered.

Twister didn't meet his eye. "Nothing that hasn't happened before, man. I'm fine."

"Jesus, Twist," Reggie breathed, as she and Sam ran over to the pair. "Are... are you okay?"

"Fine, Reg. It's nothing."

"That's not 'nothing!' That is a _far_ cry from 'nothing!'" Sam objected angrily. "Are those _strangulation_ marks?! Oh, my god, Twister..."

A hacking cough sounded behind them before Twister could ask Sam what that meant, and all four friends turned as one, to see Josh climbing unsteadily back to his feet. He looked dazed and miserable – right up until he spotted Twister. A slow-forming grin made its way onto his face, and Twister stared back at him with open hostility.

"Hey, spic," Josh wheezed. "Thanks for saving me from your little boyfriend. How's your throat?"

"Get the fuck outta here, Josh," Twister said quietly, "Or I'll finish what he started."

"_You?!_ Don't make me laugh. Yesterday you were _crying_. _Begging!_ 'Please, let me go!'" Josh mimicked, with a fake Latino accent. "'Don't make me!' Did you tell your friends what happened, or should I fill them in?"

Twister still glowered at him, but went noticeably red, and didn't seem able to meet his opponent's look anymore. He didn't rise to the bait, and Josh cackled.

"We have a game," he told the others, slowly approaching, "Called 'Smear the Queer'. A lot of fun, actually, once you get over the mess. The goal is to get mud into his mouth without him struggling too much. Nasty, for him, at least. Did you have fun, Twister? I bet you _liked_ it, you freak. I heard that's a scene with faggots-"

Josh had no time to continue his tirade. This time, it wasn't Twister who stepped in, for he was still looking away in humiliation. Otto, too, remained in place, rather spent, in spite of the burning hatred that lingered within. Sam wasn't one to swing fists, either, and was, in fact, groping his pockets for his inhaler.

Which left Reggie.

Reggie, who – in a single, graceful move – took four steps forward, in quick succession, and threw the clenched base of her palm upwards, right into the middle of Josh's face.

The boy dropped like a ton of bricks, knocked squarely out. There was a split second of silence after he hit the floor, where everyone stared at Reggie, stunned. Then, the onlookers erupted into wild, crowing cheers. Behind her, Sam let out a curious squeak, and Otto's jaw hung slack with disbelief. Only Twister remained without a reaction, keeping his head down and using the distraction to try to turn away from the scene.

Reggie took no notice of the celebratory calls aimed at her. She had already turned back around, and she spotted Twister, winding his way out through the gathered students. A terrible ache in her heart formed, and she was off, running after him. Sam and Otto scrambled to follow, moments later.

"Twist!" Reggie called in anguish, shouldering by students. "Twister, wait!"

"I really don't think we should leave the area," Sam panted.

"Never mind that, Squid," Otto snapped, jogging to catch up. "Twister needs us. We'll deal with the fallout later, now come on!"

He grabbed hold of Sam's shirt, hauling him along at more speed than Sam thought he was capable of. They spotted Reggie just ahead, darting around a corner after Twister. The crowd was thinner here, which made it that much easier to move, but people were also turning to stare, mostly at Otto, who still bled from a puffed-up cut on his lip.

When they rounded the corner, the boys were just in time to see Twister dart through the door to one of the disused classrooms, with Reggie hot on his heels. Otto and Sam burst in a minute later, both fighting to catch their breath, and both ready with all manner of questions on their tongues.

The questions stilled when they saw Twister a few feet away, on his knees, with Reggie right before him, holding him in the tightest embrace she could manage without hurting him. Her eyes were closed, and she whispered comfort to him, rocking him gently in place, while he wept silently over her shoulder.

…

Word of their showdown with Josh spread like wildfire around the school, and when it reached the ears of the teachers, an unofficial warrant was put out to find the gang, so that they might be brought before the principal, to answer for their actions.

They had left school long before that happened, however. Even Sam's protests died out after awhile, as they walked together towards the beach. Twister walked a little ways ahead of them, hands in his pockets, and head and shoulders bowed and slumped. More than anything else in the world, they wanted to help him, but every time either Sam or Otto made as if to run to catch up to him again, Reggie would shake her head in warning.

"He needs time," she told them in a hushed tone. "It's enough that we're walking with him."

"Dude, we're walking _behind_ him," Otto grumbled. "I don't want to just hang back while he's up there on his own."

"I get that, Otto, but we can't crowd him. You _know_ how hard it is for him to acknowledge this kind of stuff."

Otto fell quiet, and the three were pulled back in time together, recalling their somewhat younger years, when Twister had fallen from the skate ramp and lost his nerve. Back then, it had been easier to help him overcome his fears and troubles, due in no small part to his naivety, but also because the fix had been straightforward and relatively simple.

No longer. The matter they were faced with now was much more complex; they dealt not with a case of temporary fear, but with _generations_ of social stigma against so-called 'alternative' sexualities. Twister, too, had changed; in a way, he was even worse about admitting to his own areas of insecurity and weakness – such as being beaten up by bullies. He was also less inclined to silly or downright stupid comments, and over the past year since coming out, he'd gained some small grain of sadder wisdom that made smiles and laughter come less easily to him.

Sam, Reggie and Otto had been startled to hear his quiet confession. He'd hidden his true self so well that they had never suspected, but once the initial surprise was over, they were quick to stand by their friend. Nothing had changed; as far as they were concerned, he was still _their_ Twister, and always would be. His bisexuality was simply another fact about him.

Now, if they could only get others to accept that.

"This is bullshit," Otto grumbled. "It's 2008! I thought people got over homophobia, like, forever ago!"

"It's not that easy," Sam reminded him. "Society isn't a monolith, and there'll always be people who are prejudiced against others."

"Yeah, well. Maybe Josh will learn now that it pays to actually be nice and accept people."

"Doubt it. He'll probably double-down."

"Oh, boy," Reggie deadpanned. "Can't wait to see what that's like. Though knowing him, he'll probably make a really cringeworthy joke and it'll just... fall flat... god, _why_ is he so lame?"

She trailed off in surprise, as a low chuckle came from Twister. He stopped walking, letting them catch up a little, and though he still looked glum and battered, he managed a weak smile. They grinned back, glad that he'd at least overcome some of his apprehension. Reggie nudged him playfully with her elbow.

They went on in companionable silence like this, a little calmer now that they were relatively free of school and all the pains of their peers. Otto broke the silence by complaining about his lip and other bruises, and tried to lighten up the mood more by prompting Twister into joining him. None of them liked thinking about the shape and origin of Twister's injuries, but he played along, anyway, boasting that he had better 'battle damage' than Otto.

The afternoon might have carried on well then, had they not crossed too close to the Shore Shack.

"Regina and Oswald Rocket. Get over here, _now_."

They stopped as one, cringing in guilt at the familiar sound of Raymundo's voice. Glancing up, they saw Ray standing just outside the restaurant, his arms folded, with a furious scowl on his face. Tito and Noelani were behind him, looking less furious, but not exactly pleased.

"Ten seconds," Ray warned. "You too, Sam. And you, Twister."

"Well, I guess it's time to face the music," Sam sighed. "Goodbye, sweet freedom."

Glumly, the teens made their way closer to the Shack. Otto and Reggie exchanged a silent look of understanding, vowing that no matter what, they would stand by their principles. Not-so-subtly, Otto tried to use his shades as a reflective surface from which to look at his cut lip, and winced at how obvious it was. Ray noticed, too, because his eyebrows shot upward, almost out of sight under his hat.

"So it's true, then," he said heavily, as the four stopped before him in a row. "The school called me, not ten minutes ago, telling me you'd all gotten into a fight, and had left school grounds. Sit down. All of you."

They obliged, pulling up seats in the vacant restaurant. Ray moved back, until he was standing before them again, glaring a thousand daggers.

"Dad-" Reggie began.

"Young lady, I expected far better from _you_, most especially. I'm told you _knocked out_ one of your classmates. Is that true, as well?"

Reggie winced, but nodded. "Yes. But he-"

"But nothing! The principal is furious. Josh's parents are furious. Hell, _I'm_ furious! What were you _thinking?!_"

"He was ragging on Twist and calling him names!" Otto snapped, impatient with the scolding. "He called him 'spic' and 'faggot', dad. What were we supposed to do, stand there and take it?!"

Noelani gasped and whispered something in Hawaiian, covering her hand with her mouth, and Tito looked downright tired. Ray blinked, momentarily shocked. He looked right at Twister, and they saw a flash of concern behind his eyes, as he spotted the nasty bruises around the boy's neck. Twister met his eye briefly, but chose not to hold it, folding his arms close to himself and finding the area across the restaurant very interesting all of a sudden. He could feel every eye on him, and refused to acknowledge it.

"Twister," Ray said quietly, "I'm sorry Josh called you those things, and I'm glad I raised my kids to know when to stand up against that sort of talk. But you should know that your parents also called me today. They said you didn't come home last night. They're worried about you, especially now, after hearing about this... fighting business."

Twister scratched absently at his scabbed ear, and kept his mouth shut. Reggie glanced at him worriedly, then addressed Ray again.

"His bruises aren't from today," she said, her voice quaking a little.

Now, Twister shot Reggie a frightened look. "Reg, please don't!"

"Twister, what Josh's crew did to you was _beyond_ wrong. We have to tell them."

The fear in Twister's eyes didn't leave, but he didn't protest, and after a moment, he resigned, looking away again, with decidedly more discomfort and shame radiating from him. It grew worse as Reggie began to explain everything that had happened. Sam and Otto gave input, too, but Reggie, being the writer, was more inclined to pick favorable framing with her words, and she had a sincerity that helped cool the fires of Ray's rampancy a little.

When all was spoken, Ray and Tito were sitting, processing the information with troubled frowns. Twister hadn't waited for Reggie to finish; around two-thirds of the way through, he'd had enough of sitting there and feeling exposed, and had gone over to the stairs to Tito's place, sitting down just barely in sight. Noelani and Tito had traded an unspoken conversation then, and eventually, decided Noelani should go speak privately with him.

While the indistinct murmur of Noelani's voice drifted over the group's way, Ray sighed tiredly, putting his head in his hands. "Thank you for telling me the truth."

"So... that means we're not in trouble, right?" Otto tried.

"You are still very much in trouble. You're going to have to explain your side of things to the principal, and I think you might be pardoned a little considering the circumstances, but you _will_ be answering for causing violence. Yes, even if the cause was a good one."

"And Josh?" Sam asked.

"I'm sure Josh will be getting plenty of punishment, as well, if Twister speaks out against him."

"I don't think that's a good idea yet, Ray."

Everyone turned. Noelani had returned from her discussion with Twister. The boy still hid on the stairs, and Noelani had an unfathomably sad expression on. Ray nervously rose from his seat, reaching for her hands.

"What's wrong? Is he alright?"

"No, I'm afraid he isn't. But he was very brave, telling me what he did. I think we will all want to sit back down for this, okay?"

Confused, but attentive, Ray let Noelani guide him back to a seat, and took hers again next to him. She hesitated then, looking abruptly at Otto, Sam and Reggie, as if trying to puzzle out whether or not to involve them. Tito set a comforting hand on his cousin's shoulder, and she sighed, shutting her eyes as she told them of Twister's confession.

…

Reggie was grateful that Ray and Noelani were still over at the Rodriguez house, because she didn't think they'd have tolerated the chaos happening in Otto's room at this time.

Otto had torn his belongings to shreds, throwing things all over the place. Drawers, books, cases and god knew what else flew around at high speed, and he didn't care where they impacted. Reggie kept a cautious distance, letting him shout and swear his frustrations for a few long minutes before she interrupted.

"Otto..."

"_No_, Reg."

"Otto."

"NO! I should have killed that bastard! I wish _you_ had!"

Reggie sighed. "Look, honestly? I wish I had, too. But that's a wish that's going to stay unfulfilled."

"Why, because you don't care about Twist?"

"Excuse you! You think that just because I'm not throwing a temper tantrum all over my room, that I somehow _don't care?!_ I don't care about my friend getting sick?!"

Otto quietened a little, chastised by her rage, but still paused every now and again to chuck something against the wall. "I should have seen it."

"Seen what?"

"Seen through the way he was acting! So maybe they smeared him with mud, but he's Twister! He wouldn't let that make him feel ashamed."

"They tried to make him eat it, Otto," Reggie said almost inaudibly, inadvertently casting her eyes down in shame. "Anyone would feel humiliated by that. And you're not some all-powerful being who can see through people's feelings. _None_ of us knew, and he wanted to keep it that way. It's an outright _miracle_ that he told Noelani about it."


	12. Chapter 11

"Hey, you're Twister, right? Otto Rocket's best buddy?"

Twister paused mid-stride, gliding to a halt on his blades. He cocked his head, not recognizing the group of teens who approached him.

"Yeah, that's me. You guys know Otto?"

"You could say that," the largest of them replied, smiling in a way that made Twister a little uneasy. "We heard there's a game on. You're on the team, yeah? Who you playing against?"

Twister really didn't like the look on this guy's face, and his four friends also looked almost... predatory. His instincts told him he should leave, now, and he gripped his hockey stick tightly.

"It's Ocean Bluffs," Twister told them carefully. "Um, I gotta go warm up before the game. See you there, maybe!"

He moved to begin skating off, but suddenly found his route blocked by one of the teens. The smiles were gone, and Twister began backing away instead, only to find himself cornered. He raised the hockey stick a little, not as an outright threat, but to remind them he wasn't exactly unarmed. He also had a minor height advantage, though against this many, that didn't matter as much.

"Well, will you look at that! You look ready for a fight, Twister."

"Look, man, I don't want trouble..."

"There won't be trouble, so long as you listen and do as we say."

Twister eyed the leader cautiously. "What do you want?"

"We want you to lose, dude. See, the Bluffs know all about you and your team. You're practically legends! But all legends have to end, eventually, so new ones can take their place. When you go out on that court today, you're going to play your worst, and you're going to make your team lose. And when Otto Rocket asks you why, you're going to tell him you quit. Understand?"

"What?! No, dude. Fuck you. We play fair; you should, too."

The leader sighed, rolling his eyes. "You're old enough to know that life's not always fair. Benny, why don't you demonstrate to Twister here what'll happen to him if he doesn't cooperate."

The beefiest of the group chuckled and made a dramatic crack with his knuckles. Twister faced him, stick raised in defense, though really, he wasn't sure what he'd be able to do against a guy this big. In his way, then, he noticed the gap this 'Benny' guy left. If he could somehow side-swipe the big guy, he could escape from the group's clutches. He carefully readied himself, watching Benny's slow approach.

He had only a second to be puzzled, then alarmed, when Benny stopped, drew something metallic from his belt, and aimed it squarely at Twister.

Something fired out the end – was that a _gun?!_ \- and struck him in the chest, and he lost all control of his body, as a searing wave of pain jolted through him. He felt himself hit the ground, his hockey stick clattering uselessly to his side, but he could do nothing but lay there and twitch uncontrollably, stuttering out a strangled cry of pain, as the prongs from a ranged Taser shocked him.

Benny didn't let up from the trigger for a good fifteen seconds, and by the time he did, Twister was almost unconscious. He simply lay there, breathing, his muscles still spasming. He was distantly aware that the group had closed in on him, and were now towering over him, the hungry smiles back on their faces.

"Have you changed your mind yet, Twister?" the leader asked sweetly.

Twister couldn't reply, and as a result, the shock returned. It was somehow more painful than the first time, and he began to scream loudly, until a gloved hand hastily sealed itself over his mouth. He felt a few more moments of blinding agony, before he was out completely, the edges of his vision fading to a buzzing black.

He awoke to find himself propped up against the wall. He drew in a choking breath, disoriented, but wasn't given much time to recover. Someone kicked him, hard, and he went down on his side, hissing at the pain of the hit and the ache in his chest from the recent Taser burns.

"Since you haven't agreed to our terms," the leader said, "We're going to have to force our own action. I'm sorry it had to be this way. Actually, I'm not; it's more fun like this. Let him have it, fellas – and avoid his face and arms. We don't want to raise suspicions."

The moment they had the go ahead, the crew laid in on their target, grabbing him and holding him up while they began to beat him. Their hits were timed, so that he was barely given leeway to recover from one, before the next was delivered. They hit every part of his body, save his arms and head, as instructed. When another brutal blow his him in the side, Twister choked and gasped, feeling and _hearing_ his ribs crack under the strike. The boys holding him heard it, too, and he was immediately dropped to the ground again.

Panting and back to that semi-conscious world, Twister could only look up through half-lidded eyes, as the leader of the group crouched down in front of him. He smiled at Twister, and reached out to mockingly pat the other teen's face.

"You better hurry and catch your game," he said quietly. "And remember: if you don't lose, we'll find you again."

The group shared a laugh of victory, and began to walk away. Twister didn't watch them go; he was trying to control the shaking that had overtaken him, because it was killing his ribs. He wheezed as he rolled slowly onto his back, to relieve the pressure on his side, and he allowed himself a few minutes to lie there and recover. He had to fight not to pass out again, acutely aware that the hockey match wasn't too long from now.

Was he ready to play hockey in this state? He doubted it, and he was sure that was the whole point of this beating. But he _had_ to try. What the hell would the gang think, if he didn't even show up? The threat of being beaten even more severely played at the back of his mind, but he pushed back against that, too, and with a titanic effort, began to pick himself up off the ground.

It was only a few blocks to the court, and yet the journey managed to tax him. He could stay on his feet reasonably well, but every move he made stretched at his ribs, and reminded him of where every single bruise was located. It made him want to stop for awhile, maybe find some place to lie down... but the faint commotion of a crowd ahead drove him on. He had to make that game.

He got in barely ten seconds before game start – not enough time to warm up, or to explain his tardiness to the others. They looked relieved to see him arrive, though he saw doubt in their faces, and knew they were troubled by his apparent slowness. Otto mouthed something at him, but before Twister could process it, the whistle blew, and the game was on.

It was one of the hardest things he ever had to do, playing like this. Every movement demanded his complete focus, and every jostle and hit threatened to bring him down. He couldn't play to his full ability, but damn it, if he could just give his teammates enough breathing space, they might be able to finish it on their own. It seemed they had the same idea, once they saw that Twister was not entirely with it.

A goal was scored, for his team, and Twister managed a smile, before it was chased away by another stabbing bite from his ribs. Fortunately for him, the Bluffs crew called time-out, and the rest of Team Rocket took advantage of the pause to group up around their friend.

"Dude, Twist!" Otto snapped, "Where's your head at today?! You're playing like a fool."

"Sorry, Ottoman," Twister mumbled, recalling the threats again, and deciding he shouldn't distract his teammates with anything right now. "I-I... I'm not feeling too hot, that's all."

"You look terrible," Reggie said bluntly, folding her arms in concern. "Maybe we should call Trish or Sherry in-"

"I'll be fine, okay? Let's just finish the fight."

"Okay, but after this, you should go home and lie down. I'll get Raymundo to drive you back."

"That's okay, Reg-"

"I'm serious, Twister. I haven't seen you this pale since you cut your leg open on that cheap snowboard. Don't push yourself too hard."

Twister winced, recalling too well the day he'd nearly bled out on the side of Mt. Baldy. That had been a pretty harrowing day, as well, but at least back then, he wasn't being blackmailed.

The whistle blew again, indicating the Bluffs were ready to play. The Rocket crew took their positions again, and when the puck went down, the battle continued.

It was different this time. Twister kept playing his best, but the Bluffs had taken serious note of his weakness, and were exploiting it for all they could. Only by the grace of Sam's goalie skills did they avoid most shots at the goal; one made it in, tying the teams 1-1. Twister glanced at the game clock then, and was startled to see that so little time was left.

His glance cost him everything.

One of the Bluffs players had been skating in his direction, at almost breakneck speed. Twister looked down in time to see the approach, but there wasn't enough time to get out of the way. He managed to brace, realizing Reggie was coming up behind him with the puck, but too late; the collision came, and both Twister and the Bluffs player went down, hard.

Reggie managed to dodge the catastrophe, skirting around with the puck and passing it straight to Otto, as she was swarmed by a pair of Bluffs players. Otto danced with the puck, all the way to the goal, and swung... resulting in a score, as the Bluffs goalie missed the save. Cheers went up from the stands, but they were few, and in confusion, the siblings surveyed the area, wondering why people were murmuring instead of clapping.

The whistle blew for end game, and a Rocket victory, but no one's mind was on that now, because while the Bluffs player who had struck Twister was on his feet again, Twister hadn't recovered. He lay where he fell, sprawled and still. Sam was already out of the goal, making a beeline for Twister, and Reggie and Otto followed suit a split second later, sensing that something was wrong.

They all reached him at the same time, and reached the same state of fear and worry for their fallen friend, as they saw his eyes were completely rolled back. Worse was his heavy, uneven breathing; he struggled for each intake, wheezing audibly, and every now and then an insensible groan escaped him.

"Someone, help!" Reggie cried to the stands. "He needs a medic!"

The referee directed the order, and a standby pair of medics came racing out onto the court. Sam, Reggie and Otto were already crouched beside Twister, calling to him and trying to get some kind of response. They were quickly shunted aside when the medics reached the boy, and could only watch on helplessly.

Ray, Noelani and Tito had left the stands, and were also running over, looking stricken.

"What happened?" Ray demanded of the medics. "Is he okay?!"

"Sir, please keep back. We're checking him now, you'll just have to be patient."

"Is everyone else alright?" Noelani asked of the three remaining teens.

Otto and Reggie didn't answer, but moved to Noelani and gave her a tight embrace apiece. She and Tito coaxed all three of them back a little, as the medics began tearing off Twister's hockey gear. As they removed his chest padding, he regained consciousness, and gave a disoriented, miserable cry that almost had his friends crowding around him again. He began to fight the medics weakly, delirious, but had neither the energy nor the sense to get very far with it. Working while restraining him a little, the medics began cutting his shirt off, for they had now spied hints of bruises.

When his chest was exposed, there was a collective gasp from all.

"Got some taser burns," one of the medics reported to his companion. "Four broken ribs. Not feeling any puncture, but I don't like his breathing right now."

"_Taser_ burns?" Ray repeated incredulously.

"Blood pressure checks out okay," the other man went on, ignoring Ray, before he leaned in closer to Twister. "Son, can you hear me? Can you tell me your name, please?"

Twister may or may not have responded; he certainly mumbled something in reply, but his gaze was still unfocused. He blinked and turned his head away as a gloved hand shone light into his eyes, and he stopped struggling with an exhausted sigh.

"Hey, kid, stay awake for me if you can, okay? I need you to try to tell me how you got these injuries."

"It's not from the game?" Otto asked, almost to himself.

"Not with... with _taser_ burns," Sam replied, still astonished by the discovery.

"What even are taser burns?!"

"Almost exactly what they sound like. They can happen when someone gets hit with an electrical weapon... but who could have done that to him? And when?"

Noelani frowned. "Did any of you see anything happen to him before the game?"

Reggie swallowed the ever-persistent lump in her throat. "No. And he didn't mention anything except feeling sick. He was playing this whole time... and he never said anything."


	13. Chapter 12

"Twister? Are you alright?"

Reggie pulled away from Otto and Sam, setting her hand on Twister's shoulder. He didn't reply to her inquiry, stopping in place, his eyes a little distant. He was staring uneasily after the man who had passed; or, more specifically, at the barking dog the man had on a leash. Reggie put the pieces together, and began rubbing his arm, trying to ease his fears.

"It's okay," she told him softly. "You're safe, Twister. It's not going to hurt you. See? They're already leaving."

Twister watched the man disappear behind a corner, but the tension didn't leave his body. He swallowed, trying to clear the tightness in his throat, and when he looked back at Reggie, she saw he was still full of terror, his eyes wider than usual.

"Everything okay?" Sam called to them.

"Let's take a break, guys," Reggie responded, taking Twister's arm and guiding him to the nearest bench.

"Oh, come on!" Otto complained. "We just started!"

"A _break_, Otto!" Reggie snapped, her eyes full of a fire that immediately silenced her brother. "Just for a few minutes."

Otto was about to reply with a scathing comment, before he got a good look at his best friend. Twister followed limply along as Reggie coaxed him over to a bench, and he glanced in all kinds of random directions every few moments. He'd gone terribly pale, and as Sam and Otto approached, they could hear his unsteady breathing.

"It's okay," Reggie soothed, sitting down next to Twister, still rubbing his arm. "It's alright, sweetie."

"Reg?"

"I'm here. Sam and Otto are, too. You're okay."

Twister nodded, more to reassure himself than as a response.

"Hey, she's right, buddy," Sam told him, smiling gently. "Everything's safe. And that's _me_ saying that, so you know it's true."

Twister managed a tight smile in return, but it barely lasted. He was worried, still looking around, like he expected something to come leaping out at him.

"Should we head back to the Shack?" Otto asked uneasily.

"Maybe. Give him a minute," Reggie replied. "Just let him breathe."

Sam and Otto obliged, taking seats on the second bench, though they never stopped watching Twister, with a sort of vigilance in their postures that betrayed their worry for him.

It took more than a few minutes before he was able to calm down a little, and even then, he was still wary. Circumstances were made worse, however, as another person wandered by with a dog, and he gave an involuntary whimper, impulsively gripping Reggie's hand, desperate for contact. She took this patiently, still whispering reassurances to him, even though his grip on her fingers was making her entire hand go numb. Recognizing that his panic wasn't ebbing, she glanced at the others.

"Otto, go get Tito or dad," she ordered, her voice clipped.

Otto didn't object, and was gone in seconds, heading for the Shore Shack. In ordinary times, Reggie might have been amazed at this compliance. As things were now, however, she didn't give it much thought, still focusing on Twister, who had started to hyperventilate.

"Twist, listen to me. You need to try to breathe slowly, okay?" she directed. "Watch me."

His eyes traveled to her, and she demonstrated a deep, steady rhythm for him. He had enough sense of mind to try to follow along, even if his attempts were shaky. After a few goes, he managed to gain control, though a couple of incipient tears fell down his face. He was quiet this time around, Sam and Reggie realized; sometimes his attacks were far more obvious than this. They almost preferred those attacks, because they ended more rapidly, even as volatile as they were. These moments of silent tears were worse, indicating a deeper level of fear and loss of control that Twister was captive of.

It had taken some getting used to, at first; none of them were really certain how to react to their friend's trauma, and there hadn't been much warning from hospital staff about it happening. Once they'd spoken with Twister's therapist, however, sailing got a bit smoother. The woman had told them, step by step, the sort of stuff Twister was going through, and she'd driven home the point quite clearly: he would need their love and support, especially through his attacks.

The origin of his fear had taken place almost seven months ago now. They had all been skating, somewhat late in the evening, to enjoy the bright summer nights. A police car had pulled up on them, thinking them hooligans, and despite their good behavior, they'd all been taken in for questioning. It was there, at the police station, that the cops on duty had badly abused Twister. In his 10 hours of custody, Twister had been treated like a toy by four of the station's officers, all of them white and rather too proud of their skin color. They saw a Hispanic teenager in cuffs, and immediately targeted him. He was beaten while still restrained, in the depths of some isolated cell.

The worst of his trauma had come from the dogs.

Two police dogs were set on Twister by the officers, to bite and scratch at him, until he was shivering and bleeding under his wounds. It was this fear he carried to the present day: the fear of dogs – any dogs – that brought back terrifying memories of being cornered and mauled.

Officer Shirley had been furious when she'd returned from her leave to find out what had happened. By then, of course, the damage had been done, and it was too late. Still, the four officers had been promptly exposed and dismissed, to much public approval. Twister's parents even pressed charges, winning a substantial amount from the State of California. It would never be enough to cover the trauma, but it did help to know that almost the entire community was behind them.

Reggie recalled all of this while she held onto Twister. She eyed the now-faded scars on his arms and neck, her eyes sad. On a deep and uncontrollable impulse, she reached out with her free hand, to stroke back Twister's hair with even, soothing caresses. His shaking lessened under the touch.

"Reg?" he said again, his voice hoarse and desperate. "Reggie?"

"What's up?"

"I'm scared. I'm so scared," he confessed. "Please, I wanna go, I don't wanna be here. I don't wanna be here..."

"I know. It's okay. Otto's gone to get help. When he comes back, we'll go back to the Shack, and you can lie down at Tito's place. Does that sound okay to you?"

He shut his eyes, swallowing tears, but before he could respond, another dog walker rounded the nearby corner. The dog was large, and excited, and when it saw the three teens on the bench, it began barking furiously, straining at its leash. Twister cried out and shrunk back, latching onto Reggie. She wrapped her arms around him, straining to breathe through his terrified hold. Sam, thinking quickly, pushed off the bench and skated by the dog, drawing its attention away from Twister and Reggie. The dog's owner scowled, and began walking more quickly away from them, tugging her pet along with her.

Sam watched them go a moment, just to be sure the coast was clear, but the sounds of Twister's open sobbing brought his gaze back to his friend. Reggie met his eye over Twister's shoulder, her face solemn and serious. Sam picked his way back to them, and – abandoning any thought of how things might look to outsiders – he sat down on the other side of Twister, and joined in the hug. Like a pair of parents comforting a crying kid, they rocked their friend in silence, and cast savage looks at passerby who dared smirk at the sight.

This was how Otto found them, a few minutes later. He slid to a halt on his blades, frowning at them, and decided to bite back a comment. Behind him came Tito, racing as fast as he could along the street.


	14. Chapter 13

Lars rubbed his hands together in anticipation. Any minute now, Twister would be home from high school, and because he found school exhausting, he'd be wide open for a whomping from his older brother. It has already been a long day for Lars – what better way to make it a little cheerier, than by picking on Twister? As a bonus, neither of their parents were home. Perfect.

He heard the door go, and grinned nastily. Hiding himself from view, Lars waited until Twister entered the living room, then jumped him, keening like a hyena. Twister barely had time to react before he was on the floor, in a headlock, with Lars cackling away in his ear.

"Welcome home!" he shrieked.

He began rubbing his knuckles into Twister's hair, for the boy had long ago abandoned his signature hat. Lars braced his ears for the inevitable string of bitching and cursing that would come from Twister.

Twister didn't react. He went still and rigid in his brother's hold, and Lars stopped, frowning and pushing himself off. Twister pulled violently away from him, too, with none of the very subtle playfulness he was still capable of in ordinary events like this. The way he moved set off an alarm bell in Lars' head, and he felt a jolt of worry, wondering if Twister had gone down too hard when he'd hit the ground.

At that point, Twister climbed to his feet and turned to face him, backing away like a thing possessed. All of Lars' glee evaporated, and a pit formed in his stomach, when he saw the way Twister was looking at him: with nothing short of dejected, hollow terror... and pain.

"Hey, easy," Lars blurted, unsettled by this unfamiliar sight. "It was just a noogie. What's got you all worked up?"

Twister didn't reply. He watched Lars warily for a few moments, then hooked his finger through his dropped backpack. He didn't turn his back on Lars as he retreated up to his room, and left his older sibling utterly perplexed, staring at the spot he'd been in.

Lars pondered the situation. He'd never seen Twister like that before. Scared, yes. Hurt, yes. But nothing like this; nothing like that terrible expression. Something was wrong. On swift feet, he took the stairs two at a time, hoping to catch Twister before the boy could hide in his room. Too late, he came to the door, as it slammed in his face. Immediately, he pummeled a fist at the wood, ignoring the slight dent it caused.

"Twister! Dude, what is with you? Open up."

"Go away."

If Lars hadn't been sure that something was up before, he definitely was now. There was a small break in Twister's voice. He sighed heavily.

"Look, man, I was just messing around-"

"Just _fuck OFF_, Lars! Leave me the fuck alone!"

Whoa. Okay. He'd heard Twister swear, plenty of times. But not with _this_ level of rage and hurt. Fed up, and determined to get to the bottom of this – particularly before their parents got home – Lars backtracked to his room. He pulled out a kit he kept for certain occasions where locked doors became an obstacle to shenanigans with his friends. He figured now was as good a time as any to boost his picking skills a little.

Lars worked carefully, to avoid alerting Twister to what he was up to. It ended up being irrelevant, though, as loud bass began playing through the CD player in Twister's room. Free to tinker with more gusto, Lars had the lock out of the way in no time. He paused to pocket his picks, then burst into the room, preparing himself to be shouted at.

He stopped cold at what he saw.

Twister had been in the middle of getting changed, and now wore only his shorts. His back was to the door, and he was facing his mirror, unaware of Lars' presence. None of this was particularly alarming. What _was_ alarming was the state of the boy's body: His back was covered in thick, purple-red welts, some with congealed blood weeping where the cuts went too deep. In the mirror, Lars also saw many other injuries on Twister's chest and stomach – these, less numerous, and more chaotic and erratic, like an experiment gone horribly wrong.

Twister looked up, and met Lars' eye through the mirror.

Lars about leaped out of his skin when Twister moved. The boy wheeled around, eyes wide, then shot back so fast, and with such terrified lack of grace, that he knocked his CD player off the stand, and slammed into the mirror behind him. The mirror broke with the force of the impact, and he fell, before he began scrambling away from Lars, as if Lars had somehow threatened him just by standing there.

"Maurice," Lars managed weakly, pale at the sight of his brother's mauled chest, "What... in the _fuck_ happened to you?"

Twister was silent – save his panicked, hitched breaths, as he crawled all the way back into a corner. He was shaking, head to toe, and every one of Lars' instincts screamed; screamed at him to help, to do anything to protect his little brother. He raced over to Twister, ignoring the bleating warning from the boy. Without another word, he hauled Twister to his feet, and force-marched him out of the room, and towards the bathroom. He slammed down the toilet seat with violent swing that made Twister jump.

"Sit," Lars ordered.

Twister obeyed meekly, as Lars began tearing through the medicine cabinet, dragging out supplies. He fiddled with the cap of a bottle of iodine, threw that down, and made for Twister, intent on pouring the concoction on his back. Twister's eyes widened, and he flinched and shrunk away from Lars.

"Don't hurt me, Lars, please, I'm sorry. I'm sorry!"

"Shh. Keep still. This'll sting a lot, but it's good for you."

"Lars, please! Please stop!"

Lars ignored his cries, though in truth, it hurt him inside to hear and see Twister like this. Hating his action, he pushed on the back of Twister's neck, holding on in spite of the boy's attempts to claw at his hand, and began pouring the iodine. Twister howled the moment the mixture touched his wounds, and he writhed on the seat, forcing Lars to wrap an arm around him to keep him in place. When one of the particularly nasty gashes felt the taste of the iodine, Twister let out a blood-curdling _scream_, one that Lars was sure would be heard all the way over at the Rocket household, at least.

"MAURICE! CALLATE!" Lars ordered sharply. "Keep still. Hang on to me, if you gotta, but we're gonna clean these, one way or another."

Twister clung to Lars' shirt in desperation, gasping and choking, and Lars felt tears soak through the fabric. The kid was twitching with pain, but Lars kept up the cleaning until he was certain he'd covered every single open wound. He figured he'd deal with the ones on Twister's front later, since they didn't look as bad; there had been enough screaming in this household for the moment.

With a patience and diligence Lars didn't know he even possessed, he worked to bandage his brother's back, little by little. He didn't know what he was doing, so it took almost the entire household supply of wrappings before he was reasonably satisfied with his work. In that long half hour, Twister had gone from openly sobbing, back to that disquieting stillness that Lars found difficult to be around. The kid kept on clinging to him, so it took a bit of prying, but he managed to push Twister away.

Taking Twister's arm, he carefully – almost delicately – hoisted the boy up. Twister gave a groan of agony at the movement, and Lars felt the weakness in him, and noticed how sluggish his movements had gotten. Working quickly, he walked with Twister, back to the room, and lowered him to the bed. Initially, Lars was going to have him sit up, but when he saw the silent tears and exhaustion still in Twister's eyes, he grimaced.

"Lie down," he commanded.

Twister obliged, but couldn't quite manage it without Lars' help again. Rolling his eyes, Lars hoisted his legs up, though he took great care to make sure the movement didn't roll Twister onto his back.

Satisfied, Lars then crashed through a few items on the floor to reach the desk chair, and hauled it over to the bedside. He sat down with the back facing outward, and glowered at Twister. He remained like this, staring in silence for a long time before he spoke.

"Who the fuck did this to you?"

"It's not important," Twister croaked, his voice flat and tired.

"Fuck you, Maurice. I am about six hundred kinds of scared shitless for you right now, you know that? And it was about a thousand when you took out my eardrums in there. So you're gonna tell me, right the fuck now, got it_?_"

Twister swallowed, screwing his eyes shut in frustration. More tears seeped out, but Lars had already practiced patience once today; he could do it again. For this, he could do it.

"I got beat up," Twister confessed, barely audible.

"You don't say. _Who?_"

Twister took a deep breath in, but lost it, as it strained at his back. "...Josh Grody," he whispered eventually, defeated.

Lars stilled. Twister opened his eyes, confused by the lack of apparent reaction... until he saw Lars gripping the back of the chair so hard, his knuckles were white.

"You can't do anything," Twister said quickly. "His crew will only make it worse."

"We'll see about that."

"Lars-"

"You need to get some sleep," Lars dismissed, rising. "I'm gonna give you something that'll help. _Don't_ tell mom and dad I have it."

Twister scowled. "I don't want to smoke grass, man, it's gross."

"Not grass. Wait here."

Lars returned in short order, with a baggie of pills in one hand, and a glass of water in the other. Twister eyed the pills suspiciously.

"What are those?"

"Oxy," Lars replied, lifting out two and forcing them into his brother's hand. "They'll make you drowsy, but the pain will go away, too."

Twister tried to set the pills on his bedside table, earning him a furious glare from his brother. He met Lars' eye, and once again, Lars saw that broken look in him. It only made him angrier.

"Do _not_ make me put these down your throat," he snarled at Twister. "Take them, and rest."

Twister complied, then had to have Lars help him again, regardless, so he could sit up a little to sip water. When Lars was convinced he'd swallowed the pills, he set his brother back down again, and tugged his blankets out of the gap between the bed and the wall, to cover him. Twister irritably pushed them back, but Lars slapped his hand away, cursing at him in Spanish.

"If mom and dad see you like this, they'll freak," he said.

"Like you're not freaking out? Come on, Lars. It's really hot in here."

In response, Lars tugged open the window, almost ripping it out of its frame. Twister resigned to his fate, though in truth, the pills were already starting to kick in, making him want to lie down comfortably. He held the blankets close to himself, bringing his knees up, and shut his eyes with a weak sigh.

Lars didn't depart right away; he stayed and watched, wanting to be absolutely certain that Twister wouldn't try to disobey his directives and fly off to parts unknown. Only when the kid's breathing evened out did Lars turn and leave, faithful that the pills would keep him under for a good long while.

He had a visit to make, to one Josh Grody.

…

Raymundo and Tito exchanged a troubled look, while they worked behind the bar. It was a short glance, but so much went into it, and they both knew they shared the same concerns about the three teenagers sitting at the bar table.

Sam, Reggie and Otto appeared troubled, to put it mildly. They cradled their milkshakes like drunks cradled whiskey, and the food before them lay barely touched. Ray cast an eye over them, calculating, and trying to determine what was wrong. It was then that the more obvious conclusion occurred to him: Twister was absent from the group.

"What's up, guys?" Ray said easily, leaning on the counter.

"Nothing, dad," Otto replied glumly.

"If this is 'nothing', I'd hate to see what 'something' looks like. You guys are all acting like the beach was just closed permanently."

The teens gave a collective sigh, and another look was traded between Ray and Tito. Tito set down his spatula, determination taking him by storm, and he, too, leaned on the counter. He opened his mouth to speak – either to give encouragement or wisdom – but before he could, Reggie surrendered to the tension.

"It's Twister," she admitted sadly.

"Don't tell me you guys had a fight with him," Ray said.

"No! No, it's nothing like that. It's just... well... ugh."

Sam took up where she left off. "We think he might be getting bullied at school."

Ray's eyes narrowed, and he was surprised by the amount of anger that rose in him at this suggestion. "_Bullied?_" he repeated incredulously. "_Twister?_ By whom?"

"We don't know. He won't say anything to us about it. And there was something seriously wrong today. I don't know what, it's just... he didn't talk to anybody, didn't smile, and he seemed to be in pain."

Ray gave a soft growl, surprising the kids. "Pain? You think someone hurt him?"

"We don't know who it might be," Otto told him, his voice clipped and angry. "It's like Sammy said: he's all clammed up about it. He was _scared_ when we asked him, dad. Twister! Scared."

"I don't like the sound of that," Ray mumbled. "Did you guys take it to a teacher?"

"Why should we?! _They_ never do anything. Last time we went to them about Sammy's problems, they tried to get us to talk to the bullies. And it got worse!"

Ray had to admit, the kids had a point. Most schools these days were more focused on their public image than they were on the kids. Though OSHS had yet to implement a permanent policy of 'Zero Tolerance', their focus was all about punishment, and not resolution. Sam's issue with bullies had only been resolved when Sam had finally fought back – surprising everyone – after which the bullies left him alone.

For bullies to be targeting Twister was... odd. The boy fit in well, and was no fainting flower in terms of physical ability, either. Ray didn't like the implications of that; it meant that whoever had targeted Twister had a disturbing amount of strength over the boy, or had at least manipulated him somehow.

Ray was about to further an interrogation, to see if he and Tito couldn't help solve the issue, when there was a commotion nearby. All heads in the Shack turned at the sound of piercing, high-pitched screaming.

"Wait, WAIT! Can't we talk about this, bro?!"

There was no response, and a few seconds later, two people appeared, sprinting down the seafront. One was a figure they all recognized as Josh Grody – a thorn in the Rocket gang's side for years, ever since they had turned him away on behalf of Sam. He was running as fast as his legs would carry him, and there was terror in his eyes. Hot on his heels, and gaining quickly, was none other than Lars Rodriguez, who had formerly been a rival, and was now merely an occasional threat.

Lars caught up with Josh right in front of the Shack, and dove to tackle him, pummeling him into a nearby table. The table and several chairs went flying, and Josh scrambled to get up, before Lars grabbed him, hauling him off his feet and slamming him into one of the arch supports. Several people shouted at them, but Lars paid no heed to anything but his target. He began furiously punching Josh, snarling as he went.

It was a shocking level of violence, even for Lars. And when they looked at his face, they saw little else but animal fury there; cold and hateful, with a deep fire.

Ray moved, and grabbed Lars by the arms, hauling him off of Josh. Josh slumped down the arch support, coughing and blinking through a haze of blood. Lars thrashed against Ray, and began cussing at him in Spanish.

"Stop!" Ray commanded. "Lars, that's enough!"

"Get the fuck off me, Raymundo!"

"You need... to calm down!" Ray said, with effort, barely holding onto the older teen.

"He a-attacked me out of n-nowhere," Josh stammered, staring at Lars with fright. "U-unprovoked-"

"Shut the FUCK up, Grody! You had it coming! When I'm done with you, you're gonna be pulp!"

"ENOUGH!"

The bellow stilled every soul in the place, and shocked gazes traveled to Tito. Tito had approached, spatula in hand, and had it raised as if it were the spear of King Kamehameha I himself. Lars took the opportunity to shove Ray's hands away from himself, but he didn't attack Josh again, noticing Tito's death-stare.

"You better start explaining, cuz," Tito said shortly.

Lars scowled. "This doesn't involve you. _Any_ of you – except him!" he pointed at Josh, who flinched. "I'll kill you, Grody. I'll end you."

"And what did he do?" Tito demanded.

"Nothing!" Josh protested, too quickly. "I told you, man, he just started chasing me for no reason-"

"YOU HURT MY LITTLE BROTHER!"

For the second time, shock silenced all, for Lars' voice broke as he mentioned Twister. There were no tears in his eyes; the fire wouldn't allow it. But they could all see something in him, something terrible and frenzied there. This was no ordinary case of brother standing up for brother; Lars was almost feral, and none of them had ever seen him so riled up over Twister before. Josh, recognizing his cover was blown, began to stagger to his feet, seeking escape. Lars tried to lunge after him again, but was restrained by both Tito and Ray this time. Josh chuckled to himself, backing up out of the Shack – only to bump into something behind him.

He turned, alarmed, and found himself face to face with Otto.

"Otto, don't-!" Ray shouted.

Too late. Otto's fist flew out, as hard as he could throw it, and Josh crumpled under the blow, groaning and holding his nose. Otto stood over him, a murderous expression on his face, almost matching Lars with his rage.

"What did you do to my best friend, Josh?" he demanded coldly.

Josh spat out a mouthful of blood, and a tooth. He glared up at Otto, sneering his aggression. "You mean the spic retard?"

Otto pulled back to aim a kick at Josh, only to be restrained by Reggie and Sam. Otto writhed in their hold, but stilled after a moment, able to control his anger far better than Lars had. Josh tried to climb to his feet once more – only to be grabbed by the back of the neck by a powerful arm that belonged to Raymundo. Ray marched him over to the Shack again, pulled out a chair, and made Josh sit down, before taking a seat across from him, his eyes dead and hostile, like a shark's.

"You had better start confessing, young man," Ray told him quietly. "And you'll do it without resorting to racism. I won't have it in my restaurant."

Josh gulped, and he sealed his mouth shut. Lars, still pinned by Tito, scowled.

"Too scared to talk now?" he mocked. "That's okay, dipshit. I'm gonna take out your tongue, anyway."

"Lars, _enough_," Ray ordered sharply.

"He won't tell you. So I will: he whipped Twister's back with something. He fucking _whipped_ him. He looks like a victim of slavery, man."

Josh bared his teeth. "That's not true! I didn't do anything!"

"HE _NAMED _YOU, MOTHERFUCKER! He named you. You can't even see which cuts are which because there are so many! I had to clean him up and give him hospital-grade drugs just to take away his pain. And now I'm gonna end you. You hurt him. You hurt my brother. You're lucky you ran here, because if I ever catch you alone, you are _dead_."

The third and final silence cast itself over the group. And finally, in spite of everything, Lars looked ready to weep. Ray stared at him, meeting his eye, before standing up to grab the phone.

…

Otto was done with waiting. He'd been as patient as he could be, these last few days, and put all his focus and energy into school and sports. Reggie and Sam were in a similar state, though they weren't quite as anger-driven as Otto was. Now, he kept up a hefty pace, as he marched down the stairs and out the front door. Reggie caught him up easily, while Sam huffed and puffed a little ways behind.

"You heard what dad said, Otto!" Reggie scolded her brother. "Twister needs time to recover."

"He's been recovering for days already. I wanna talk to him. He needs to know we're here for him."

"You know he knows that. And I doubt Mrs. Rodriguez will even let you in the door! Especially not when you look like you're going to murder someone."

"That 'someone' already knows we're going to kill him," Otto muttered under his breath.

Reggie heard him, and turned purple. "If you do anything to Josh, his family will press charges. You and Lars are lucky they didn't already press charges!"

Otto didn't respond, though he thought retribution would be worth the punishment, if he could somehow get to Josh's cell at the juvenile hall. It was one of the very few things he and Lars actually wholeheartedly agreed on.

In the aftermath of Lars' showdown with Josh, Ray had called Officer Shirley, explaining the situation as best he could. It turned out that Shirley already knew something had happened; Lars had not been thorough enough in trying to hide his brother's wounds from his parents, and when Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez arrived home, it was to empty medicine cabinets and a very groggy, confused and injured younger son. They had taken Twister to a hospital, and though Twister was not forthcoming about who had attacked him, Shirley put the pieces together easily.

Twister had been released from the hospital the next day, with generous quantities of painkillers and antibiotics; infection had set in on two of his cuts, despite Lars' cleaning, and though he was deemed alright for home care and treatment, he was not out of the woods just yet. They were all frustrated, and worried, and missed their friend. Things had not been the same without Twister around, which was why Reggie didn't press too firmly against the current mission to the Rodriguez house.

Otto reached out to start hammering on the front door, before Reggie caught his fist with a glare. She pushed him back a little, then did her own reach, knocking gently. It didn't take long for Mrs. Rodriguez to answer it, and in moments, the door had opened. The three teens were a little taken aback; she looked tired and fretful, as she studied her visitors. Some light of recognition hit her eyes, however, and she managed a wan smile.

"Hello, you three," she greeted, her voice quiet.

"Hi, Mrs. Rodriguez," Reggie said, smiling warmly. "Um, I know this is probably a bad time, but... we were wondering if we could see Tw- um, Maurice."

Mrs. Rodriguez sighed, her eyes losing the light as her son was mentioned. "I'm afraid I can't let Maurice out to hang out with you guys. He's still very sick, and he needs his rest."

"Oh, that's okay," Sam put in, thinking quickly. "We didn't mean for him to come out. It's just... well..."

"Ah. You miss him," Mrs. Rodriguez nodded thoughtfully. "I suppose it would be alright for you to come see him. But, please, keep your voices down, and do not disturb him. He's sleeping right now."

She beckoned as she turned to let them in. The trio exchanged looks of surprise, but didn't hesitate, filing in as one. She led them through the entry, but didn't head to the stairwell, instead diverting to the living room and disappearing around the corner. The gang followed, curious, but as they, too, made the corner, they stopped and stared in shock.

Twister lay on the sofa on his front, deeply asleep, with one arm wrapped around a pillow, and the other hanging limply to the ground. His face was peaceful enough, and they might have thought him simply tired, had he not had a feverish sweat on his brow – and had it not been for the brutal injuries on his exposed back, peering out from underneath several damp towels. Some of the towels were stained slightly red, and a fan was blasting at full power over him, both to cool his fever, and to drive away the inevitable burning over his whole back.

He shifted a little as the group entered, but didn't wake. His mother came to him, reaching out to test his forehead with her hand, before she tutted and stroked back his hair. She glanced at the clock, then at the trio.

"I need to give him some of his medicine," she whispered. "Will you please watch over him a moment?"

They nodded as one as she took off, and clustered around the sofa, staring down at their friend. Reggie bit her lip, and crouched down, copying Mrs. Rodriguez's move by petting back his hair. He gave a weak sigh at the touch.

"Poor Twist," Sam whispered sadly. "He looks awful."

Otto said nothing. His fists were clenched; eyes narrowed. His stare was fixed on those scars on Twister's back, and in that moment, he could think of little else except making Josh suffer the same fate. He gritted his teeth, but for Twister's sake, he kept his anger close and quiet; it wouldn't do to wake him up. Not when he was like this.

It turned out that it didn't matter, for Mrs. Rodriguez had returned, bearing gloves, antiseptic, a small bottle of clear fluid, and a capped needle. She had a grim and determined look about her, and the kids gave her a wide berth, as she carefully took a seat on the edge of the sofa. She applied the gloves, then cautiously, and ever so slowly, began peeling back the towels from Twister's back.

Reggie's eyes widened, and Sam was just in time to stifle a gasp. Otto swore he cracked a tooth, so hard did he clench his jaw.

The skin of their friend's back was all of one mess of long, red welts, with a massive underlay of bruising. As the towels came away, Twister stirred uncomfortably, feeling every small touch on his inflamed wounds. His eyes fluttered open, and it was clear that though he was under the influence of heavy painkillers, it still hurt him.

"Mama?" he mumbled into the pillow.

"I'm here, Maurice," Mrs. Rodriguez replied softly. "Try to go back to sleep."

Twister didn't comply, as he'd finally spotted his friends. Reggie, being closest, forced a gentle smile onto her face, and found he matched it a moment later with a tired grin of his own.

"Hi, guys."

"Hey, Twist. How're you feeling?"

Twister considered the question a moment, shivering as his mother pulled away the final towel. When he slowly shut his eyes again, sighing deeply, it was clear he wasn't really in a fit state to respond. They thought perhaps he'd drifted back to sleep, but when Mrs. Rodriguez reached out and began swabbing one of the more inflamed of his injuries, he tensed and moaned.

"It's okay, Twister," Reggie told him, impulsively taking his hand. "It'll pass. Hang on to my hand, alright?"

"That's good, Reggie," Mrs. Rodriguez nodded approvingly. "Keep him occupied. It's time to give him the first injection."

They all went pale, realizing what she meant, and why she was cleaning Twister's cuts: she had to directly inject the medicine into his wounds. Sam did an about-face as Mrs. Rodriguez raised the needle, though he didn't leave. Otto went rigid, hugging his arms to himself.

The second the needle went in, Twister drew in a choking gasp, his eyes shooting open and going wide. His grip on Reggie's hand tightened like a vice, and he fought to keep still, knowing even in his haze of pain, drugs and illness that movement would only make it thousands of times worse. His held breath gave out after a moment, and an anguished, agonized cry came with it.

"Shh, I know, mi hijo, I know," Mrs. Rodriguez called to him. "Lo siento. Just one more after this."

She withdrew the needle the moment the medicine was in him, and set about swabbing the next infected area. Twister had started shaking badly, and when he shut his eyes again, tears soaked into the pillow beneath him. His breathing had become sharper and more erratic, in anticipation of more pain to come.

The second injection had similar results to the first, and Reggie's hand went numb under Twister's grip. Mrs. Rodriguez, too, had silently begun crying, and she soothed her son as she treated him, speaking gentle words of comfort in Spanish. It took awhile for Twister to stop crying out after it was all said and done, and his mother moved with a quick determination to dispose of the needles and gloves. She didn't replace the towels, for the cuts needed air.

Reggie felt Twister's hand relax a little, as he went quiet and still. She feared he might have passed out, but soon saw his eyes were open again, and carrying a certain, distant look that made her uneasy as she recognized it. He'd gone pallid, too, and kept swallowing hard.

"Mrs. Rodriguez?" Reggie called, drawing his mother back into the living room, "I think... I think he's gonna be sick."

In response, Mrs. Rodriguez shot around the couch, almost throwing Reggie aside. She pulled a bucket from nearby, clearly prepared for such instances from bad experience. She just managed to pull him over the edge and support him before he vomited abruptly. His friends winced in sympathy. Very little came up, but the strain pulled at his back, catching him in a horrible cycle of retching because of the pain, because of the retching.

His mother alone managed to coax him out of it, holding onto her son and repetitively stroking his hair, until his convulsions slowed. When she thought he was done, she moved him back over, and her whispers stopped as she saw him slide back into his drug-induced sleep. The crew hung back, sobered by the entire event. Even Otto lost every ounce of the impatience he'd carried over here earlier; Twister really _did_ need time to recover.

They startled a little when Mrs. Rodriguez stood up and sighed. She picked up the bucket, carrying it with her, and looked back at them with tired eyes.

"Come, I will clean this, and then let's sit down in the kitchen," she offered. "He'll be alright for now."

No objections were given. As quietly as they could, they left Twister to sleep off his agonies, and clustered in around the kitchen bar, while Mrs. Rodriguez returned and began making tea. There was tense silence between all of them while the kettle boiled – until Mrs. Rodriguez sighed again, and spoke.

"Thank you for being here," she told them steadily. "I think, even in his condition, he was pleased to see you. As am I. He's lucky to have you as friends."

"We just want him to be okay," Reggie confessed. She paused. "Are _you_ okay, Mrs. Rodriguez?"

Seeming a little taken aback, Mrs. Rodriguez blinked, then reached across the way and patted Reggie's hand, an action that might have earned her mocking and snickering from Otto and Sam, had the situation been less serious.

"I will be okay, too," Mrs. Rodriguez said. "He is my son, and a mother is _always_ worried. But he is also strong," her eyes darkened, "I don't know what possessed that boy to harm him so badly, but my Maurice will recover."

The rest of the visit was a quiet affair. They drank their tea, and chatted with Twister's mom, sometimes about Twister, and sometimes about anything she cared to talk to them about. She clearly needed some kind of outlet to vent her worries, and her son's friends took it in stride.

Things came to a close when they heard the door quietly open and shut. Mrs. Rodriguez looked up, checking the time again.

"That will be Lars," she said, mostly to herself.

"And our cue to leave," Reggie added the unspoken order.

Mrs. Rodriguez smiled apologetically, gathering the empty mugs to wash them. The gang thanked her, and rose to make their exit, wanting to see Twister one last time before going. When they entered the living room, however, they saw that Twister wasn't alone.

Lars was crouched over Twister. He didn't see the Rocket gang, but it didn't matter; his attention was on his little brother. He was whispering, very gently, in a way they had never seen him do before. It was as unorthodox as his storm of violence against Josh, but with the opposite effect. He reached out for Twister, resting a hand against the side of his face, and though the boy was back in his deep slumber, he reacted to this touch as he had with Reggie, leaning into it comfortably.

They crept by the pair, understanding that this moment wasn't meant for them; it was sacred, and secret. As they walked, Sam's foot scuffed the ground a little, alerting Lars to their presence. He turned sharply, identifying them, and a hostility began to take his features... before they softened again. The two parties considered one another in silence, before Lars nodded once, steadily.

It was an acknowledgment, and a thanks.

…

"Maurice, please, slow down! I do not want to see you get sick again from pushing yourself too hard!"

Twister ignored his father's admonishments, as he hurriedly gathered up his gear. Today was the _day_ – the day he'd finally get to go out with his friends! He'd been laid up at home for a month already, healing, and he was thoroughly tired of being cooped up inside. Sure, the gang had come to visit him often, but as he grew stronger, and as the wounds on his body mended properly, he'd found himself becoming increasingly frustrated, envious of their freedoms.

Snapping the straps of his helmet together, he grabbed his backpack and raced for the door, where his bike and surfboard awaited only his arrival to begin. He'd almost made it there, before the way was blocked, by Lars. He sobered up fast, losing his eager grin, and Lars folded his arms.

"Come on, man," Twister pleaded. "I really, _really_ need this! The surf's great today!"

Lars huffed. "You better be careful, _Maurice_. I'm not dragging your ass up the hill again when you get too tired."

Twister smirked, which only earned him a light punch in the arm from Lars. Regardless of his misgivings, Lars eventually rolled his eyes dramatically, and stepped aside. Twister felt his smile return as he dashed into the sunshine.

It had never been much of a distance to the Shack, and most of it was downhill, but Twister found himself struggling a little. His body was still weak, and being on painkillers for so long didn't do him any favors. Though his back was almost completely healed – minus the ugly scars – he still got a little pain from it from time to time, like now, as he pedaled to move. His enthusiasm outpaced this minor setback, however, and soon enough, he pulled up to the familiar, long-missed shore front restaurant.

He'd barely dismounted the bike before he was tackled.

"Whoa, _easy_, guys! Remember what I told you about being careful with him!"

Raymundo's amused and concerned call broke Twister out of his shock, and he laughed, returning the embraces of his three friends.

"You're back on game, dude!" Otto cried, releasing him first and beaming. "I can't believe your parents agreed to this so soon!"

"I think it was mostly mom's fault," Twister said, as Sam and Reggie also released him. "She got sick of me bitching about going outside."

"Yeah, well, she doesn't have to worry anymore," Reggie said, smirking, before she reached out and pinched his cheek. "Wittle Maurice has his babysitter to take care of him!"

Twister scowled and waved her off. "How long are you gonna keep doing that?"

"For_ever_."

They all chuckled, and withdrew into the cool shelter of the Shack. Twister was about to take a seat, when, for a second time, he was drawn up into a hug – this time, from Ray. He blinked, startled, his arms pinned to his sides, and the mood went a little sober, for Ray's greeting was quieter, and filled with the kind of worry that belonged to a fretting parent. He recognized Twister's discomfort, however, and quickly set the boy down again, though he squeezed his shoulder.

"I'm glad you're alright, Twister," he said gently. "We were worried about you."

"Thanks, Raymundo," Twister mumbled.

"Hey, there he is!" a booming shout cried suddenly, startling everyone. "Twister, little cuz! On his feet at last!"

"Tito!" Twister's face lit up in a million-watt grin, and it was his turn to hug a friend, though he regretted it as Tito practically crushed him.

"You're too skinny," Tito said critically, ushering him back to the bar table with the others. "Lemme cook you something up. How about some chili cheese fries and a chocolate shake?"

"Man, you have no idea how amazing that sounds. I'm so sick of Abuela's lentil soup recipe. I never wanna see a lentil again!"

Aside from the rehashing, Twister felt as though he'd never left. He munched on fries and listened to Sam describe the latest ridiculous happenings at school, and his smile never left him. He didn't notice the way other Shack customers stared at him, once they spotted the scars peeking out from under his blue tank top; he was simply happy to be here.

All too soon, the itch to surf came upon the four friends, and they bailed from the Shack, tearing off articles of clothing and dashing away with their surfboards, and remembering to thank Tito and Ray with shouts as they went. Both men watched them go, chuckling, but Ray's smile faded, as he eyed Twister's back.

"Poor kid. He's gonna carry those for the rest of his life," he murmured.

"Trust you to notice the only cloud in the sky, bruddah," Tito remarked. "He's happy to see the other little cuzes, and to be back on the water, where he belongs."

"I know, I know. I just hope he doesn't get too many stares. Lot of customers looked at him like he was something out of a horror movie."

"That's their problem, not his. And you know his friends will look out for him."

Ray sighed, returning to his task. "You're right, as always, my friend. Say, what do you say we join them in a little while? Just to see how they're getting on. I sure could use some time on the waves."

"You mean, you want to keep an eye on Twister so he doesn't get too tired. I get it. But the waves sound good to me, bruddah."

Down on the beach, the teens began eagerly paddling out, eyeing the surf with excitement. Reggie and Otto shot ahead, paddling as fast as they could, but Twister and Sam were slower. Noticing the way his friend struggled to keep up, Sam smirked to himself.

"Looks like you're in the back seat with me," he teased.

In response, Twister splashed water at him, though through his glare, there was a hint of amusement. "Don't get used to it, man."

"Yeah, I won't. You'll be back up there with them in no time."

They paddled on, and after watching Reggie and Otto catch a good wave, they made their move to join the next. Twister felt a surge of thrill, as he sensed the wave rise up beneath him, and he whooped with delight, standing and riding almost effortlessly through the tunneling crest. Alongside him were his friends, and his joy infected them, so that they sounded like a pack of wild dogs, laughing once more, without a care in the world.

They came down together, easing off the wave and coming to a rest. The ride had taken them a little too close to the swimming area, but they didn't mind, and grouped together to exchange their signature handshake, just for the hell of it. As they turned to wait for the next wave, however, a pair of shoobies behind them began to talk.

"Oh... oh, my god! Look at _that_."

"Shh, not so loud! He'll hear you, you know."

"I wonder what happened. It looks like somebody hit him with a whip."

"Kinky. I wonder if he can see how ugly they look."

"Shut up, Kelsey! You don't know how he got them. Maybe he's a war veteran."

"He doesn't _look_ like a war veteran. He looks sick, like a junkie. It makes sense if you think about it – lots of people in _that_ kind of scene do drugs."

Twister's smile had gone, and he sat stiffly on his board, his eyes forward and hardened. Sam and Otto glanced uneasily at him, but Reggie had turned right around, and was now facing the chattering women. She folded her arms and scowled murderously at them.

"Excuse me," she said pointedly, "But you're being really rude right now."

The women startled out of their gossip, blinking, then blushed as they saw that they'd been noticed. Before Reggie could belt out another scolding, they swam away. Otto, Sam and Reggie watched them go, before Otto paddled up next to Twister, grimacing.

"You okay, dude?"

"Yeah," Twister muttered. "It's nothing, man."

"Stupid shoobies. Don't let them get to you."

"Right."

"You should start telling people crazy stories about how you got them," Sam offered. "My uncle has a scar on his face from cancer surgery, and he likes to tell people he got attacked by tigers, or that he was in a bar fight."

"Not helpful, Sammy," Reggie mumbled out the side of her mouth.

"Sorry..."

But Twister managed a light grin at the thought, and then suddenly broke out laughing. "She thinks I got them from kinky bullshit! What the fuck, man. People are _weird_. But I am so using that on some stuck-up old lady or something. 'Hey, puta, you wanna see my sex scars?'"

Otto snorted hysterically, leaning forward, then overbalanced and fell, which served only to make them all laugh. The dark mood that had briefly taken over was lifted, and they fell back into the rhythm of surfing and enjoying the sunlight.

It didn't take much of this before Twister began to tire. His back started hurting again, in a low-key, constant ache that further drained his energy. The others noticed when he began to take fewer waves, and eventually, they decided to call it quits, not wanting to leave Twister out. They stuck together this time, as they paddled back to shore, slowing their pace for him. Just as they made it back to the sand, they saw Tito and Ray marching down the beach, surfboards at the ready.

"Hey, you're leaving already?" Ray asked. "We were gonna join you guys for a little while."

"Sorry, dad," Otto said, "Twister-"

He was cut off by a sharp elbow from Reggie. "We were all getting kind of tired," she said firmly.

"Ah, I see," Ray said knowingly. "Well, Tito and I are gonna catch a couple. Why don't you kids head on back to the Shack, whip yourselves up a meal?"

"Don't burn my kitchen down," Tito warned.

"Sounds good to me," Sam said. "The food part, not... not the kitchen burning down."


	15. Chapter 14

"Twister. Are you paying any attention at all?"

Caught thinking hard on whether or not he should apply for that new mathematics assistance program, Twister startled when Reggie nudged him. "Huh?"

Sam and Otto shared an amused look.

"I asked you whether you had the tapes ready from last session," Reggie repeated patiently.

"Uh... what session?"

"The _surf_ practice, Twister!"

Twister blushed, looking down and fiddling with the zip on his pack. "Right. Yeah. Yeah, I got it all edited yesterday. No sweat."

"Good. I'll need to look it over for screen grabs for the Zine. You busy later?"

"Well, I have English-"

"_After_ school, Twist."

"Oh! Um, don't think I'm doing anything, no. I'll bring the tapes over to your place, okay?"

Reggie nodded, satisfied, and rolled her eyes at Trish, who merely smirked. They hadn't meant for Twister to notice, and were confident he hadn't; the reality was that he'd seen Otto and Sam's look, as well as their look. It pulled at something inside him, something he wasn't really sure he could identify. He'd felt it before, a few times – mainly when Otto had once made fun of him, when they were kids. He'd beefed it hard back then, and spent the next couple of days avoiding the crew and struggling with his fears.

They had helped him overcome it back then, but lately, he noticed a pattern. His blunders weren't treated with as much easygoing grace as they once were, and his friends seemed more and more annoyed with him when he did mess up. He knew he wasn't the brightest light on the block – or, as Sam had once put it, the sharpest spoon in the knife drawer – but matters often got worse when he felt stressed or under pressure. The more nervous he became, the more he goofed, and the more he goofed... well, the more nervous he became.

He didn't speak again that whole lunch period, for fear of blurting out something stupid. Trish and the others continued their chatter, and he felt the pang again when they didn't seem to notice his silence. It didn't sit well with him, and drove all his appetite out the window. He decided he needed a walk, and stood up abruptly, in the middle of a conversation between Sam and Reggie. They all stared at him.

"I have to go, uh... look at some stuff for A/V," Twister mumbled.

"Okay, see ya," Otto dismissed.

And that was it. No, 'Don't you want to stay and chat for a few more minutes' or 'Come on, man, A/V can wait, come chill with us'. Sam and Reggie carried on talking, just like that. None of them really looked at him. As an experiment, he walked a few paces, then turned and waved. There was no response.

His heart began to race as he continued his path, though he wasn't really sure why; he felt like the Squid sounded when he was in the middle of an asthma attack: unable to breathe, with a tightness in his chest. He pulled out of the flow of people for a moment, trying to catch his breath again – when he noticed he could still hear the others, speaking in low tones. Something about the acoustics of his position gave him a perfect eavesdropping nook, and he listened, curious.

"-you think he's dumb?" Trish was saying.

"He's an idiot," Otto snapped. "You can just say that. I'm _way_ tired of the stupid shit he says."

"Ease up, Otto," Sam defended. "I mean, it's probably not really his fault. Some people are just... born with low IQ. Twister's one of them."

"That doesn't mean I like having to put up with it!"

"You have to admit, Sammy, it does get frustrating," Reggie added. "Yesterday in class, he couldn't even answer a basic multiplication question. I thought Ms. Jennings was going to lose her mind. He's just... ugh. He's stupid. There, I said it."

"So, again I ask: Why do you hang out with him?" Trish said.

"I'd feel bad if we ditched him. It'd be like ditching a handicapped person. And he's been our buddy since forever."

"Hanging with someone out of pity isn't honest, Rocket Girl. You gotta look deeper than that. Be genuine, or don't be at all, y'know? You gotta _really_ think back on your history with him, and ask yourself what it is about your friendship that's kept him in place."

"Trish, come on. No philosophy stuff, please? Not today," Otto begged. "We already had one genius among us, and he left us in peace a few minutes ago."

Twister had heard enough. The tightness in his chest didn't go away, instead worsening with every word he overheard. He stumbled away from his position, his body feeling numb with shock, as he tried to process and rationalize the conversation. Had they been serious? They'd sounded serious. They'd sounded like his parents, whom he'd once overheard debating what to do about their youngest son; what to do about the boy who was failing all his classes, save for the arts.

The detached numbness remained with him as he retreated down the halls. He didn't feel like going to next class; hell, he didn't even feel like going to A/V club. He began to wonder whether his teachers would even notice, or care, if he just... didn't show up. With the words of his friends ringing around inside his head, he decided that they wouldn't, and made for the school exit.

Back inside the cafeteria, Sherry watched on with a frown, as Twister Rodriguez beat a hasty retreat. She glanced between him and the group, puzzling things out, and as she approached, she, too, caught wind of some of the discussion. Her frown deepened, and she walked straight up to the table.

"Hey, girlfriend!" Trish greeted cheerfully.

"What's up, Sherry?" Reggie said. "You look like something's bugging you."

"Maybe not me," Sherry said at once, "But something's definitely bothering Twister. I heard what you guys were saying... and going by the look on his face, it looks like he might have heard you, too."

The group went still. Looks were traded – guilty ones.

"Uh-oh," Sam said, in a small voice.

"Yeah, 'uh-oh!'" Otto growled. "Why did you talk about his IQ, Squid?!"

"Hey! I'm not the one who outright called him an idiot, _Oswald!_"

"So? Reg called him stupid."

They bickered back and forth like this, while Reggie, Trish and Sherry watched on. Reggie grew redder and redder in the face, until, rather abruptly, she slammed her hands down on the table, silencing the pair. Her anger simmered a moment, then died down a little as she considered the situation.

"We need to apologize," she muttered.

"A minute ago, you guys were deciding on whether or not to keep being friends with him," Trish said pointedly.

"Okay, but we weren't... we weren't serious. We can't have been," Reggie stumbled over her words, slowly coming to a realization. "God... I can't believe I said he was stupid. _I'm_ stupid. It's Twister, you guys!" she threw up her arms, causing Otto and Sam to flinch back. "The same Twister who brings us wicked footage, almost every day. The same Twister who saved our asses in the Grand Canyon, and rode with us through New Zealand. The Twister who, once in awhile, says some of the most... _profound_ things I've ever heard."

She looked at Trish, suddenly ready to admonish her for suggesting a break in the friendship – before she saw that Trish was smiling warmly. She blinked, perplexed.

"You guys are loyal to each other," Trish explained. "Always have been. Even me and Sherry don't compare to the bond you guys built over the years. I wanted to know if you could see that or not, because some of the stuff you said? _Majorly_ harsh. Even if you were busting on him a little, it was still too far."

"Listen, Socrates," Otto snapped, "Just say what you mean."

"I mean that I don't think you're tired of him – you're his best buds. Your sister is right, my dude. You need to go apologize, pronto."

Sherry nodded. "He looked upset, guys. _Really_ upset."

"Did you see which way he went?" Sam asked, looking over his shoulder.

"Not really. I thought he might be heading to A/V, but he was going in the wrong direction. Like... towards the exit."

The trio exchanged troubled looks. "He left school?" Reggie said quietly.

"Like I said, I don't know."

"What do you say we take pity on them, and help them look?" Trish suggested, rising out of her relaxed position. "He probably hasn't gone far. Probably to a place he feels more secure."

The trio considered for a moment, trying to think where Twister would often go when he felt depressed or anxious. The lightbulb hit them at the same time, and they looked at each other once more.

"Under the Pier," the said, at exactly the same time.

…

Twister dug his toes into the sand, but didn't take leisure from it like he normally would. He was well-hidden here, and without shoobies or locals to stare at him, he let his tears fall openly, his mind still constantly replaying what he'd heard that day.

He hugged his knees up to his chest, hiding his head, and shook with stress. His mind wandered from the conversation, to other areas of trouble: what good could he possibly be, if he couldn't even answer a simple math question? The requirements to graduate were too high for him to reach, and he'd never be able to get there. Worse, no one really gave a damn about the things he _was_ good at – art, A/V, even music. Colleges and employers didn't care about those things. They wanted the clever students; the people who could solve problems and do basic calculations.

But what did that leave for him? Some small part of him told him that he could still go for videography, before he quashed it with the reminder that this art required mathematics. Directors, grips, and all the things under the sun required it. And that was the advanced stuff! Nobody walked into a studio and started off the bat. It required degrees, which in turn required menial jobs like cashier work, which required _mathematics_-

His miserable musing was interrupted by voices. He looked up, alarmed, and tried to wipe the tears from his eyes – but too late. Five figures came wandering into view, headed right in his direction. At first, he took them to be more shoobies, until he saw that they were his age. His age, and carrying joints and alcohol.

They noticed him.


	16. Chapter 15

Twister knew he should probably pull over. The dark of the night made things difficult enough to see on a normal occasion, and tonight was anything but. He found he was rubbing his hands over his eyes every few moments, to clear away tears that didn't seem to want to stop.

It had been a fun party, up until the end. He'd only had a light beer, since he hadn't been keen on walking home, but in spite of being one of the very few sober people there, he'd enjoyed himself. He and his three friends had danced, laughed, and played stupid party games, and with the vast majority of the upperclassmen of OSHS there, things went fairly wild.

Unfortunately, not long after people began wrapping things up, the ninety-degree downhill drop had come. Lars had shown up, having traveled from community college to join the shenanigans. Although he and Twister got along better these days, Lars could still be a mean drunk, and like most mean drunks, he took out his frustrations on those closest to him. Like family.

No physical blows had been exchanged between the two brothers, but the words had left enough of an impact. At first, Lars had been mocking, and Twister hadn't really engaged. When Lars had begun shouting about their parents, however, he hadn't been able to stop the swell of fury.

_"__Just go home, Lars," he muttered, annoyed._

_"Home?" Lars spat, staggering under the influence. "Oh, yeah, Maurice. I'll go home – except, oh wait! There is no home for either of us, is there?"_

_The surrounding crowd grew dead-silent at the implication. All eyes drifted to Twister, who went very still, and slowly turned to face his older brother._

_"__What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?" Twister hissed._

_"You know what I hate most? The way you stayed. You fucking stayed! How can you stay in that house, after everything that's happened?"_

_"They left BOTH of us the house. And I'm not gonna just get up and walk away like you did! Mom and Dad loved that house, man. They loved it."_

_"__They might have loved the house, but they sure as shit didn't love us... and fuck, they loved you more than they ever did me. Why do you think it happened, huh? If you hadn't been such a selfish little shit, they would NEVER have gotten in the car! They'd still be alive, but you just _had_ to fucking cut on yourself ! You had to be the pussy who hurts himself just to feel better!"_

_Whispers abounded among the crowding students. By now, Reggie, Sam and Otto were pushing their way to the front, anxious to intervene. But Twister barely paid any of them any heed; he felt his heart almost stop in his chest, his breath seizing with it, as a deep internal pain overtook him. In spite of his drunken state, Lars saw the words hitting home._

_"It's your fault, Maurice," he said quietly; dangerously. "It's your fucking fault they're dead. They're gone because of you – because you couldn't handle anything. And I wish it was you who died instead."_

_"That's ENOUGH, Lars!" Reggie yelled, as she and the other guys came up behind Twister, and spaced themselves between the two._

Lars had said more after that, and everyone had all started shouting, but about what, Twister didn't know or hear. The agony of his accusation had hit him like a steel wrecking ball, deafening him to all else except the blood rushing in his ears. An automatic, nearly primitive response had risen, and his goal became singular: get out.

He'd run from his friends, and fled the party, ignoring all desperate calls and pleas for him to stop. Even moments after leaving, and diving into his car, he felt the urge get stronger. It nearly overwhelmed him, and he might have surrendered to it there and then, had Reggie, Otto and Sam not come sprinting towards him, fear and worry filling their expressions.

He'd driven around as many corners as he could find, stalling and trying to throw off anyone who might have tried to follow. It hadn't been long after that that he'd pulled into a darkened lot, and turned off the lights and engine, so he could finally get the release. The results of his failure were written all over him now: semi-dried blood caked his arms in dark streams, and pulled at his fresh injuries. He hadn't counted them, this time around; he'd been in a near-trance state, automatically slicing open every available inch of both his arms, from wrist to shoulder, on each side.

They ached, and they were meant to – the pain kept him centered, and brought him the kind of relief that no amount of grief counseling or time could. It was his drug, and he'd been doing his best to hide it from his friends and surrogate family. He'd kept the damage to his thighs, for the most part, though temptation and lack of space would sometimes lead to hasty cover stories that were only half-believed.

Now, Lars had essentially informed all of Ocean Shores what his younger brother did to himself. That was only a small part of what drove Twister's continuing panic; the rest belonged to the realization that Lars had been _right_. If he hadn't called them... if he'd just sucked it up and kept the secret from them...

He was startled out of his thoughts by the grinding of tires against the curb, and he swerved quickly, correcting course. He swallowed more tears, wondering if some freak of fate was trying to make him meet a similar end to his parents.

That's when the siren went off.

His eyes widened, glancing in the rear view mirror, and he swore as he saw a familiar police car, tailing him closely. His panic surged, but his body, numb with emotion, wouldn't obey the fleeting desire to run again. Shaking from head to toe, he pulled over, and stopped the car.

He didn't really notice Officer Shirley and her partner reaching his vehicle. He found his breaths were coming in short, gasping sobs, and he no longer bothered to hide his tears. He stared straight ahead, gripping the steering wheel so tightly that the strain in his muscles re-opened his wounds a little.

"Twister, honey. Honey, look at me. It's Officer Shirley. I need you to try to calm down, okay?"

"Christ, Shirley, his arms!" the other cop whispered.

"I see it. Call an EMT unit; 10-96. And don't be a jackass about it."

While her partner withdrew to make the call, Shirley shone her mag-light into Twister's car. She assessed the damage, the conclusion making her uneasy, as she recalled the phone call she'd received from Twister's distressed friends. 'Danger to himself' had been the key words, and it appeared as though they had been correct.

"Twister, I need you to step out of the car," she called. "Don't worry – you're not under arrest. We just wanna take a look and make sure you're alright."

"I'm sorry," Twister blurted, his voice hoarse and choked. "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry..."

"It's okay, sweetie. Just take some deep breaths for me, alright? Nice and slowly."

Twister either didn't hear her, or couldn't respond correctly, and Shirley grimaced, understanding that she'd have to take more serious measures to coax him out. She reached out for the door handle, speaking soothingly to him as she went, and eased the door open. She could see him more clearly now, and his trembling scared her to her core. She'd known Twister Rodriguez since he was just a munchkin, and she hated seeing him like this.

Still speaking to him, and letting him know what she was doing, she carefully pried his hands from the wheel, and guided him out of the car. He – or, at least, his body – was oddly cooperative, but it was clear from the blood all over his arms and clothes that he was in as much physical distress as he was emotionally distraught. She walked him over to the curb, supporting him cautiously, before she had him sit down. She did her own, basic medical checks, feeling his pulse and prying over him gently. His eyes, wide and haunted, responded alright to her light, but he wasn't all there anymore, she knew.

The EMTs arrived not longer afterward, while Shirley sat down with Twister, and kept a gentle hand resting on his back. He didn't respond much to the paramedics, only muttering apologies, over and over, with that same, terrible look about him. He was very still while they began swabbing at his injuries, and Shirley was surprised the pain wasn't getting to him – until she saw him relax a little more every time he should have been wincing. Of all the things to see tonight, that disturbed her the most: the way he was _relieved_ to be hurting.

She didn't have much time to process this, before her partner swore under his breath. "Rocket's here."

"I'll deal with this," she told him. "Keep an eye on things here. And be _gentle_ – this is Twister Rodriguez we're talking about here, not some LA shoobie. Hooah?"

"Hooah, ma'am."

The headlights of Raymundo's Woodie lit up the sidewalk as Shirley made her way over. The car had barely stopped before every single door opened, and Ray, Noelani and three familiar teenagers scrambled out. They swarmed as one, their gazes fixed fearfully on the swirling lights of the ambulance nearby. Shirley intercepted them, and held up her hands.

"Slow down, all of you," she cautioned, in her best police authority voice. "It won't help matters if you crowd him."

"Please tell me he's alright," Ray croaked. "When I got the call from the kids..."

"I can't say he's well, Ray, but he's alive and walking."

Ray frowned at this mixed response, and met Shirley's eye, a silent communication running between them. He shared this same look with Noelani, then chanced a peek at Reggie, Otto and Sam. The three teens stood by anxiously, barely noticing the conversation; they were trying to see around Shirley and the gathered vehicles, but Twister was out of sight.

Ray sighed. "Give it to us straight. The kids are old enough to handle it."

Shirley was saddened by that simple comment; in her opinion, no one should have to handle what she was about to tell them, at any age. "Pulled him over after a hard swerve," she explained. "His arms are... god, there's no real easy way to put this, people. He harmed himself pretty badly. The medics are patching him up right now."

Ray shut his eyes, drawing in a calming breath, and Noelani squeezed his arm, though she looked heartbroken. Sam, Reggie and Otto seemed to take the news with a little more strength, but then, they had already witnessed Lars expose Twister's secret, and they'd been the ones to call in help for their friend, so worried were they for his safety.

"Officer Shirley?" Reggie asked, "May we... may we see him?"

"Not just yet, honey. When the medics give him the okay."

The wait was not long, but to the group, it felt like agony. Snippets of words drifted over to them from the EMTs, but nothing clear came of them. It worried them that they also heard Twister, once or twice, with greater clarity, if only because they recognized his voice: his broken apologies, over and over. It made them all tense, and Shirley sensed it. She glanced back at her partner, who had remained within visual contact, as cops do. He knew what she was asking, and relayed the request to the medics, before trotting over to her.

"They're gonna take him into a hospital," he told his superior, before eyeing the group. "Said they're not comfortable letting him be on his own just yet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sam demanded. "Which hospital is he going to?"

The cop bit his lip. "OS General. He will, however, need to be under psychiatric watch for at least 48 hours. They still need a legal guardian to approve him, and I'm certain nobody would object if you guys followed us there. Mr. Rocket, if you'll come with me, you're needed to ride in the ambulance."

Ray almost outpaced the cop in his haste to reach Twister. The teens almost followed him, but both Noelani and Shirley stopped them.

"Back in the car," Noelani said. "You heard the guy: we're going to follow."

There were no objections. Shirley watched them pile back into the Woodie, with Noelani at the wheel, then joined her partner in the police car, readying a convoy to head to the hospital.

…

The small hours of the morning saw the whole crew gathered in the waiting room. They had been joined by Tito and Paula, whom had both come when Sam had called his mother with an update. It was harrowing, standing by and being able to do nothing, while their best friend was being checked over and put into the system as a 'patient at risk'.

Ray returned to them at some point, when they had all tired of pacing or sitting. Every head looked up when he entered, and the minute the Rockets saw him, they rushed to him together, clustering into a hug that Tito, Paula and Sam kept a respectful distance from. Ray looked positively haggard, and his eyes were filled with despair. Otto and Reggie took one hand apiece from him, and guided him over to the nearest chair.

He didn't speak for a long time, and fretted with his hands, until Noelani grasped them this time, lending her support. He finally looked up, to all of them, attempting an apologetic smile, but managing only a terrible grimace.

"He's not well," he said at last, with a heavy sigh. "Doc thinks he's suffering some form of psychosis. He... he's not really speaking. Didn't recognize me or really know where he was, either. They put him on a sedative for now, to help keep him stable, and we should be able to visit soon."

"You did good, Ray," Noelani said gently.

Ray squeezed her hand, before a troubled frown grew over the lines on his face. "Has anyone been able to contact Lars? He has a right to know about all of this."

The adults turned their eyes towards the teens. The trio went still and stiff, and Otto, especially, couldn't hide his furious scowl.

"He started this!" he spat. "Drunken idiot came to the party and started yelling at Twist. He said... he said it was Twister's fault their parents died, because Twist had been... he'd been hurting himself before."

They explained to their parents all they had witnessed. Each adult listened in stony silence, growing wearier and wearier as the explanations for Twister's condition came to the surface.

At the end of it all, Ray looked exhausted. "I'm gonna have to update the doctor on that," he said, his tone flat and lifeless. "He said it was unusual for someone without any sign of mental illness to go straight into psychosis, but given what you've told me... poor Twister. He's been suffering awhile. And I didn't even see it."


	17. Chapter 16

Sam and Otto winced as Reggie gave a piercing, very un-Reggielike _squeal_ of delight. They were left in the dust then, as she raced forward on her blades, making a beeline for the answering squeal. Once they understood what was going on, and who Reggie was excited to see, they quickened to catch up.

Reggie all but collided with her friend in a tight hug, babbling welcomes and hellos. "When did you arrive? You didn't say you were coming to Ocean Shores!"

"I wanted to surprise you! How have you been, Tomboy?"

"I've been great, Little Miss Tutu. I'm so glad you're here!"

Clio flashed her a smile, and waved at Otto and Sam as they reached her. Behind her a little ways, and standing with his hands in the pockets of his shorts, was a guy none of them recognized. He seemed shy of the commotion, though he also wore a light grin. Clio noticed the trio staring questioningly, and tutted, beckoning to the boy.

"Come, Maurice, it's alright. They're friends. Guys, this is my cousin, Maurice Rodriguez. He's Lars' younger brother."

"_Lars_ has a little brother?" Otto asked incredulously, raising his eyebrow at the boy.

There was no outright response, but the new guy did scowl at Clio, backhanding her shoulder lightly and giving her a palms-up 'what-the-hell' gesture.

Clio rolled her eyes. "You will _always_ be Maurice to me," she turned, addressing the group, "He prefers his nickname, Twister, goodness knows why."

Reggie stuck out her hand at once. "Hey, Twister. My name's Reggie Rocket. This is my little brother, Otto, and our best friend, Sam. Are you just visiting, like Clio?"

Maurice – or Twister, they supposed – took her hand and shook it, and waved to the guys, but again, didn't respond. He looked shy once more, not meeting Reggie's eye, and Clio's smile faded a little.

"He'll be staying here from now on," she explained. "Tia Sandy and Tio Raoul want to move here, I think mostly to keep an eye on Lars while he's in college, but also to give Maurice a fresh setting. I expect you guys to be nice! He's a good surfer, and he plays most of the same things you guys do."

"That's awesome!" Otto cried. "Dude, you should totally join us later for a surf. Don't worry if you don't have a board – my dad runs a surf shop. What do you say? You can be our new Squid!"

Twister looked puzzled by the expression, and glanced at Clio.

"A... squid?" she asked them.

"It's a term for 'newbie' around here," Reggie clarified. "Sammy's been our Squid since forever."

"Yeah, and now with a fourth guy, we can finally do street hockey without pulling man down or relying on Eddie!" Otto went on. "You ever play street hockey, Twister?"

Twister grinned broadly and nodded, though he looked a little uncomfortable under all the scrutiny. He tapped Clio's elbow, catching her attention, and made a brief, almost careless gesture with one hand.

Clio hummed in response. "Don't worry too much, Maurice."

Sam, who caught onto these things more quickly than his friends, studied Twister thoughtfully. "Hey, I don't mean to be rude, just curious, but... are you lip-reading?"

With a sigh, Twister shook his head this time, losing some of his cheeriness. Clio tutted again, resting a hand on her cousin's shoulder.

"He can hear you just fine, Sammy," she said. "He struggles with selective mutism. He's just shy about signing sometimes, especially around new people."

"What's mutism?" Otto asked loudly. "Is that like autism or something?"

"He can't speak, Otto," Reggie said, casting him a warning glare that she hid from Clio and Twister.

"Oh... so... I mean, he's still cool to do sports, though, right? I guess that makes hockey kinda hard. Communication is important in that game!"

Reggie growled and pulled her brother aside, much to the amusement of Sam, Clio and even Twister. While they bickered, Sam beamed at Twister, and began to sign in rapid succession. Twister looked startled, then barked out a short, happy laugh with Clio, as Sam spelled out something rather unflattering about Otto.

"Sorry," Sam said sheepishly. "Couldn't resist. That's about the limit of my knowledge of ASL. Maybe you could teach me to use words instead of just spelling... I've heard of selective mutism, though – you can still talk sometimes, can't you? But only around people you trust?"

Twister studied him in surprise. Instead of nodding or shaking his head, he raised his hands, and, working at Sam's speed, spelled out letters for him: _How did you know that?_

"Trust me, around here, I'm a renowned nerd," Sam replied. "I read a lot of books about different subjects. Came across one about speech disorders awhile back, and I guess the knowledge stuck with me."

"But that's wonderful, Sammy!" Clio cried. "No offense, cousin, but it's very difficult sometimes to explain to everyone why you won't talk to them."

Twister stuck out his tongue at her.

"Oh, you know what I mean. I just think it's fantastic that he knows and accepts you, silly."

"That makes three of us. _Right_, Otto?" Reggie said, as the siblings rejoined the group.

Looking a little ashamed of himself, Otto skated up to Twister. "Sorry, man. I didn't mean to be offensive or anything. I think it's dope that you're here. Wanna be bros?"

He stuck out his hand, palm up, and waited. Twister stared at the gesture, because it certainly wasn't any handshake he'd ever seen before. Reggie and Sam laughed, and took up the slack, turning to one another and playing out the classic 'woogity' motion. Twister, losing his confusion, hesitantly copied the gesture with Otto, though he never made a sound.

"Come on. Let's head over to the Shack – I wanna introduce you to my dad, and Tito!"

Before anyone could object, Otto was off, shooting along the street in the direction of the seafront walk. Reggie sighed, rolling her eyes.

"The Shore Shack is a restaurant run by my dad and his friend," she told Twister. "Also, I'm pretty sure Otto forgot that you and Clio aren't in blades... or else he's just really embarrassed by his behavior, and wants to cool off a little. I promise Sammy and I will go slower, though."

"Ah, the Shore Shack," Clio sighed. "You'll like it, Maurice. They serve chili cheese fries and all kinds of other unhealthy things."

Twister punched the air, and the four of them headed in the same direction as Otto. Reggie and Clio chattered nonstop as they went, catching up on news and events. Sam listened, but was mindful that Twister kept to himself, unable to really join in without it seeming like a major interruption.

"It's always like this with them, don't worry," Sam told him, wobbling a little on his blades. "Otto and I usually can't get a word in, either, so you're not alone there."

Twister just smirked at the thought, then made a clear gesture that he kept hidden from Clio: _Hens_.

Sam snorted, then overbalanced and fell. Twister pulled him up, concerned. "I'm okay, thanks. That happens a lot, too. I only learned to skate and stuff when I moved here from Kansas. Reggie and Otto taught me everything they know, but it's still a little sketchy now and then."

_How long have you been friends?_ Twister asked.

Sam deciphered, then answered, "Since we were 9. Well, since I was 9. Reggie's older by a year. Didn't stop us from hanging out, though. How old are you, by the way? I'm turning 18 next week."

A lopsided grin. _Same age. But my birthday is in October_.

Unaware of the parallels between themselves and the two girls, he and Sam began to chat, exchanging information. Sam wasn't shy about asking Twister about his mutism, something that was a pleasant surprise for Twister; most people became uncomfortable at the details. Sam, however, was open and accepting, and when Twister began to hesitantly explain how he'd come to stop speaking, Sam was empathetic, rather than pitying.

_It's not always about speech_, Twister explained. _Sometimes it's about communicating anything. Like how I couldn't sign with you guys when we met up back there._

"So you don't feel like your words are worth listening to?" Sam asked softly. "I hope we never make you feel that way, dude. That majorly sucks."

_Can't help feeling it sometimes. I don't really..._ Twister stopped signing, struggling for meaning. _I don't know how to relate. Most people haven't experienced the stuff I've seen._

"I'll say. I can't imagine going through something like that and coming out without some kind of trauma..." Sam trailed off, noting the dark look in his new friend's eyes. "Sorry, dude. But, if you ever want to vent about it some more, I'm here to listen."

Twister regained the light in his features. _Thanks, Sam._

They moved to catch back up to Reggie and Clio, who had gotten ahead a little. They both noticed the boys weren't with them, and turned around, waving them on. Twister began to jog to reach them, only to have to halt and double back, for Sam had fallen again.

Reggie chuckled. "At least they seem to be getting along."

"I'm glad. You have no idea how nice it is, seeing him hang out with other people for once," Clio sighed. "It's so hard for him, Reggie. He can barely speak to his own parents, and I think he's only spoken to me once in the last four years. I wish he'd never suffered the way he did."

Losing some of her joviality, Reggie glanced at Clio with a worried look. "Sounds like a story," she offered.

"A long story, but to keep it short: He was held hostage, back in Tijuana. Drug dealers. They did terrible things to him... hurt him and threatened him. He was just a boy then, not even involved in what they were doing. They hurt him for _fun_, and ever since then, he hasn't been able to talk."

Reggie's eyes widened. "He was tortured?" she whispered, horrified.

Clio gripped her arm gently. "Don't make that the talk of the town, girl. He's not beyond telling people about it, but it's not easy for him, at all."

"No, I understand. I just... wow. That's terrible. Poor guy..."

"Be careful with that big heart of yours, Tomboy. He doesn't like pity."

At that point, they both clammed up, as Twister and Sam got within earshot. Sam huffed and puffed from his recent near-pavement encounter, and Twister had that smile on again – a lopsided one, that was both sweet and gentle, and filled with an inexplicable level of complexity. Reggie met his eye, briefly, and the smile faded, replaced by a calculating look. The minute he and Sam stopped, he quickly signed to Clio, still watching Reggie.

Clio turned pink. "What makes you think we were talking about you?"

Twister broke his stare to give Clio a look. He signed again, too fast for Sam to keep up, while Reggie remained clueless. This time, Clio sighed in defeat.

"He says it's rude to talk about others behind their backs," she mumbled to Reggie, "But that he forgives us. Sorry, Maurice. But you can't expect me not to explain some things!"

"How did he...?" Reggie trailed off, and shook her head. "Twister, how did you know?"

Sam, watching Twister's response, chuckled a little. "'Observation,'" he translated. "'When you're not the one talking, you learn to listen more, and people say a lot with their faces.'"

Reggie folded her arms self consciously. "And what does my face say?"

"'You're worried about me. It's a little flattering, and a little disturbing.'"

Reggie's face began to match her hair, but Twister only laughed in good nature. He continued walking, apparently now determined to reach the Shore Shack, whose sign peeked out not far from their position. The other three darted to keep up with him, catching him up just shy of the entrance arches.

Inside, things were relatively quiet – it was mid afternoon, and most of the shoobie lunch rush had fled to the beach, leaving only a handful of people coming in and out with orders. Otto was here, however, seated casually at the bar table, and talking animatedly with his dad. Behind Ray, Tito listened in, a look of genuine intrigue on his face.

"-the hockey team, then we can totally beat Lars! I can't wait to see the look on his face when his own _brother_ shows up to a match."

"Otto, next time, maybe _wait_ for us?" Reggie interrupted.

Otto, Ray and Tito all startled. Ray was the first to recover, eyeing the newcomer with interest. He waited until everyone had seated themselves, before he stuck out his hand abruptly to Twister.

"Name's Raymundo, but you can call me Ray," he introduced. "Reggie and Otto's dad. Otto was just telling me and Tito here all about you. You're new in town?"

Twister gave him a firm grip and a nod in response, but his cousin and his new friends all saw that earlier shyness returning. He looked as if he wanted to sign something, but he watched Ray and Tito with wary caution. Clio nudged her cousin in the ribs.

"Don't mind him, Raymundo," she said. "He'll warm up to you soon. How can he not? You and Tito are such wonderful people."

"Aw, now that's sweet of you to say, Clio. Welcome back, by the way! How's life in Tijuana?"

Both Reggie and Sam winced at the mention of the city they had both recently heard about, then looked at each other suspiciously, confused that they'd had the same reaction. Twister and Clio didn't appear to notice, however, and Clio happily caught Ray up on things while orders were taken. Twister grabbed a menu while they all chatted, and his eyebrows shot up at the selection. His eyes traveled upward, to where Tito stood at the grill, and he quickly looked away again, when he saw Tito had noticed him.

"I know a hungry customer when I see one, little cuz," Tito said. "What'll it be?"

Nervously, Twister turned the menu around, and immediately pointed to his selection. He waited, visibly anxious, expecting the usual reaction from what others considered outwardly rude behavior. Tito, however, burst into a delighted laugh, startling Clio's general monologue into silence, as everyone stared.

"One mega fish taco, coming right up!" he bellowed. "Glad to see _someone_ appreciates the masterpiece that is the fish taco," he playfully glared at the whole group.

"Oh, Maurice!" Clio groaned, "You can't! It's disgusting."

Twister smirked at her, before considering something else on the menu. Tito had already turned away, so he waited a moment, hoping to catch the fry cook's attention again, without success. Ray saw him, and – keeping in mind what Otto had spilled to him, about this kid being mute – began easing up off the counter to see what he wanted. He had barely moved before Twister pursed his lips and gave a low but resonant whistle.

It was a sound that came from serious practice, for the tone was perfect, and directed with just the right amount of volume that Tito noticed before anyone else did. Tito didn't know how he knew it was for him; the way that two-tone whistle came out simply told him, 'It's for you', and he turned right around, surprised.

"Maurice, what have I told you about doing that?!" Clio snapped. "One of these days, someone is going to mistake you for a bird, I swear..."

Twister blinked, then seemed to realize what he'd done. A blush showed on his cheeks, and he quickly signed to Clio, before stopping and hiding his hands as he saw Tito and Ray watching him. Clio lost her momentary annoyance, her face softening.

"It's alright," she reassured him. "I know you didn't mean it, and they do, too."

"Yeah, but that was cool," Sam objected. "I don't think I've ever heard a whistle quite like that."

"Neither have I," Tito remarked, giving Twister a friendly smile. "Pretty good."

Twister didn't meet his eye, still embarrassed. But, with a nudge from Clio, he hesitantly brought the menu up again, tapping hopefully at a vanilla-coconut milkshake.

"Ah, I see," Tito said knowingly, nodding. "_That_ one is definitely worth a whistle or two, lemme tell you!"

Conversation resumed to a normal pace, as Clio continued her stories. Tito delivered Twister's food in short order, and was pleased to see that the simplicity of the meal delighted the boy so. Clio wrinkled her nose at the distinctive scent of the taco, and made all manner of faces, while Twister ignored her.

"So, dad," Reggie said pleasantly, "Twister's into surfing, or so I was told."

"That's great! No better place in the world to surf."

"Yeah. Anyway, I was wondering if you maybe... I dunno... had a board he could borrow? For free? The waves look great today," she added quickly, as Ray frowned. "I wouldn't want to leave him behind while the rest of us got to play out there."

"You're getting too good at this negotiating stuff, Rocket Girl," Ray muttered.

Reggie blinked innocently at him.

"Fine, alright! When you guys are ready, head on down to the shop. Twister, I assume you know your board preferences. But remember, it'll only be free once! I hope you brought your own board for next time."

"He has one, don't worry," Clio reassured him hurriedly. "It's still packed, though, otherwise we wouldn't bother you about this. Thank you so much, Raymundo."

Ray grumbled to himself, making a retreat for the kitchen. Clio and the others turned to discuss the prospect of surfing with Twister – then stared in shock, for the boy looked dejected and worried.

"What is it?" Clio asked him. "Did you not want to go surfing? I'm sorry, we should have asked you-"

He cut her off with a halfhearted wave. _No, I wanna go surfing, but... Ray didn't look too happy. I didn't mean to upset him._

"Oh, Maurice, it's alright. He's not upset. In fact, I think he's secretly pleased that he gets someone new to try out his boards."

"Yeah, trust us on this, dude," Otto put in. "It's mostly an act, with him."

"Hmm, I'll let him know you said that," Tito remarked.

"...don't even think about it, Tito."

"Look at it this way," Clio added, seeing Twister wasn't too convinced, "You'll get the opportunity to try a brand new board, instead of that worn old tornado one you're always riding with."

Twister frowned at her sternly. _I love that board._

"You just like it because it has that silly design on it."

They bickered like this all the way down to the beach. The trio watched on, perplexed, for the argument was, to them, almost completely one-sided. It was like witnessing Clio talking down the phone, and Sam still wasn't able to keep up with many of Twister's replies. The pair were so caught up in it that they wandered past the shop, and Reggie had to call to them twice.

"Hey! Rodriguez and Rodriguez!"

Startled, they both turned, then Clio noticed her location, and dragged her cousin back to the group. Otto was already hoisting the sliding door of the shop, and he'd barely hooked it open before Reggie darted past him eagerly to turn on the lights.

Twister stopped and stared. It wasn't much of a shop – just a small repair and rent affair – but that was part of the beauty of it: Simplicity of the best kind. He found himself drawn towards the boards, looking over each one with an experienced eye. Sam and Clio rolled their eyes at each other, but Otto and Reggie waited like statues, watching him with unconstrained excitement.

One board in particular caught his attention, and he ignored all others thereafter, vaulting the table and making directly for it. It was a sleek, black shortboard, with a beautifully painted red and white stencil pattern, depicting an erupting volcano and surrounding jungle. Twister slowly reached out and set his hand on it, grinning ear to ear. It was the perfect height, and the design appealed to something deep within him. He looked back at his friends, and found Reggie and Otto exchanging looks, before they returned their attention to him.

"Go for it, dude," Otto said, with somewhat dampened enthusiasm.

"Maybe there's another one that suits you?" Reggie said hesitantly.

Twister lost his smile at the reactions, cocking an eyebrow.

"Don't worry about it-" Otto began.

"It's just that... well, that one's sort of special," Reggie cut him off. "It's mostly just been for show, since dad doesn't like to rent it out. The thing is, that was the board he finished the day our mom passed away."

Twister withdrew his hand from the board as if he'd been burnt, and a sorrow filled his features. They didn't need him to sign to know that it was an apology. His eyes suddenly widened, fixing on a location just beyond them, and he withdrew further from the board, like a kid caught trying to steal candy.

"It's alright," a voice said, startling Reggie and Otto. "If that's the one you think you want to ride, take it down."

Ray stood in the entry, his arms folded, with Clio and Sam peeking out from behind him, and Tito waiting a little further back, all of them looking solemn. For once, Twister found he struggled to read an expression; he saw that Ray was deeply troubled, but there was also a light in his eyes, almost as if he were daring Twister to take it. Twister hesitated a moment, but when Ray nodded an encouragement, he returned to the board, and slowly dismounted it from the rack.

Otto and Reggie threw themselves abruptly into the task of bringing out their own boards, both of them unusually silent, and pointedly not looking at their father. Ray kept his eyes fixed on Twister, as the boy almost reverently lowered the black board to the work table. Running both hands over the surface, he examined every angle of it, admiring the craftsmanship. Once more, he looked up at Ray, as if asking permission. At that point, Ray finally managed a soft, wan smile, and another nod.

"We're all set, dad," Otto said, as he passed Sam's board out of the shop. "Twister, you have something to surf in?"

In response, Twister shrugged, and pulled off his blue tank top, casting it aside with the clothes the rest of the crew had discarded. He steeled himself a little as he did this, knowing full well that he didn't really want to see the reactions of the others when he exposed his marred upper body. He heard Ray choke back an anguished gasp, and didn't acknowledge it, as he strode out the opening, board tucked safely under his arm. When he passed Otto, the other boy went bug-eyed, his jaw falling.

"_Holy_ sh-"

"Shut it, Otto," Reggie snapped, noticing Twister's discomfort instantly, though she had to force herself to look away from him. "Clio, what are you doing? You joining?"

Clio tossed her hair back, to apply a light layer of sunscreen to her shoulders. "Mm, you know me, Tomboy. I prefer sun to water."

"Suit yourself. Come on, guys. Let's hit the waves."

She began marching down the beach, not glancing back, a determination marking her stride. Twister followed, coming up alongside her, leaving Sam, Tito, Otto, Ray and Clio to watch them walk. Clio stopped applying sunscreen with a weary sigh, unable to pretend any longer that all was well.

"Please, try not to stare too much," she told them stiffly. "Of course, he'll understand, and if you ask him directly, he may be able tell you about them, if you're patient and careful. But he doesn't like being stared at, or treated differently because of them."

"Clio," Ray said, his tone stern and quiet, "Where the hell did he get scars like that?"

"I... don't know if now is the right time to say," Clio replied uneasily. "But he's alright, Raymundo, I promise."

"Let them enjoy the water, Ray," Tito said gently. "You'll get plenty of time to interrogate him later. Go on, little cuzes," he shooed Sam and Otto along, as Clio strode closer to the water line of her own accord. "Get out there and have fun."

Both adults watched together, in silence, while four teens took to the waters, and a fifth set herself down in the sand to sunbathe. Ray's eyes were fixed on Twister, who took the first wave with Reggie. He felt his heart hammering away in his chest, and wondered if he'd made the right decision; that board was not for amateurs or shoobies. It hadn't been for _anyone_, save his late wife, but when he'd seen Twister's admiration of the board, something in Ray had prompted him to let the boy try it.

And Twister was no amateur. He had a nimble balance, and kept pace easily with Reggie. When Reggie shot up to pull a trick, he would answer with a different, complimentary trick of his own, managing to be just as impressive with it. When the wave began to collapse on itself, they both pulled out gracefully, side by side, coming to a smooth stop on more even waters. Sam and Otto cheered wildly, and Reggie exchanged a high-five with Twister, her face lighting up with surprised delight.

"Namakaokahai," Tito muttered, smiling.

"Don't think I know that one," Ray shot back. "Another Ancient Hawaiian saying?"

"No, bruddah. Namakaokahai is the Hawaiian goddess of the ocean. She is sister to Pele, the volcano goddess. And like a certain pair of other siblings I know, the two are always fighting one another, and creating a divine balance in the process."

"So...?"

"You did good letting him try that board. It's a balance that was meant to be – and I think Dani would be proud of you."

"I hope so, Tito. I really hope so."

They both paused again, out of respect, and out of natural awe, as they watched the four kids on the waves. Tito sighed heavily, breaking the calm.

"When you planning to ruin their afternoon?"

"The minute they get back up to the Shack," Ray replied immediately. "I half wonder if I shouldn't call child services or something. Some of those are cigarette burns, and _whip_ marks... someone hurt him bad, Tito, and I wanna know who."

"Easy, Ray. Let the kid explain his story in his own time. You'll do him no favors forcing him."

"I know. I just... I've never seen that level of abuse against someone so young. It doesn't sit right with me."

"He'll be alright. He's got some great new friends to help him along, and now he's got a surfboard to match his soul, too."

Ray cocked his head to one side. "You think I should give him the board."

"I think you should do what your heart tells you is right. But, yeah, I think you should give him the board. It's been sitting on that stand for a long time now. You built it for the water – for a surfer who had the grace to handle it. _She_ may never have ridden it, but now there is someone who can."

"Tito."

"Yes, bruddah?"

"I really hate it when you're right."

"I don't."

…

Twister looked more relaxed than they'd ever seen him be so far. The five of them meandered slowly back up the beach, trusting the fading afternoon sun to dry them off. Boards were put back in the shop area, and only here, did Twister finally start to lose some of that surfer's high, as he reluctantly parted with the black board.

A hand squeezed his shoulder, and he found it belonged to Reggie. "I've never seen dad give that board to anyone," she said softly, out of the hearing of the others. "I'm glad he let you try it. You were impressive today."

Smiling, Twister faced her, a cast a very deliberate sign, bringing his fingertips on both hands to his mouth, and gesturing outwards with flat palms. Reggie was puzzled for a moment, until she took in the sheer level of gratitude and appreciation in his eyes and body language: _Thank you_.

He stepped away then, to shoulder his way between Otto and Sam, who were making a general mess of the clothes and arguing over where who had put what article. Reggie almost joined them, but Clio pulled her aside suddenly, out of earshot from the boys.

"I have _never_ seen him use both hands for that gesture!" she whispered excitedly. "Did you understand it?"

"He was saying 'thanks', right?"

"Yes, but using both hands like that means it's a _very_ heartfelt thanks. It's not used often! Oh, Reggie, I'm so glad he decided to come here. You guys have been wonderful with him. And you have my deepest thanks, as well, for letting him hang out with you."

Clio pulled her into a tight hug, surprising her, but she returned it happily a moment later. They parted quickly, not wanting to alert the rest of the crew to this 'girly moment', and Reggie finally got a chance to retrieve her clothes, since the boys had finally sorted out theirs. Twister seemed a little more comfortable, now that the majority of his scars were hidden under his shirt, but now that they knew about them, his friends couldn't help but notice the way some of them peeked out from under the cloth.

"So, dude, you gonna tell us about all that?" Otto blurted, pointing, and causing Reggie, Sam and Clio to palm their foreheads.

Twister stopped and stared at Otto's pointing finger, expressionless.

"Otto," Reggie fumed, "Stop. _Pointing_."

Otto blinked, then withdrew his hand sheepishly. "Sorry. But, for real, those are some mega battle scars. They look dope, though – like, warrior dope, y'know?"

"Otto!"

Twister looked to Clio. He heatedly signed, _We should wait until we reach the Shack. You already told Reggie, and I told Sam, but Otto still isn't the only one out of the loop._

Clio frowned. "What do you mean?"

_I mean, I don't want Raymundo and Tito calling CPS on Mom and Dad for something they didn't do, and I don't want to explain this shit a bunch of times in one day. Especially not to a police officer._

"Are you sure about this, Maurice? It's okay if you don't want to. I can even explain to them for you, if you want."

_I'd rather not get talked about behind my back again, Clio_.

"Hey! I said I was sorry!"

_Just translate for me, please? I want to at least try._

"Of course I will. What do you think I've been doing this whole day?" Clio folded her arms.

"Mind filling us in?" Otto demanded, cross from being scolded.

Clio grimaced. "He says he'll tell you, but he also wants Ray and Tito in on the talk. I'll translate for you guys."

"Something tells me this isn't gonna go down too well with them," Sam remarked quietly.

"Don't sweat it, Sammy," said Reggie. "Dad will understand."

"The way he understands every time he freaks out when you or Otto come home with, like... a dime-sized bruise?"

Reggie winced. "Okay. So, he might get a little wigged out-"

"Mind filling _me_ in?!" Otto snapped.

"Soon enough, Rocket Boy. Let's just get up there. You ready, Twist?"

Twister replied by leading the way, his hands going to his pockets once more. The group kept close together, taking the ramp up to the now-foreboding presence of the Shore Shack. They saw Tito and Ray chilling behind the bar, and the place was finally devoid of shoobies, but neither of these sights were a comfort. Both men looked up sharply as the group poured in.

"Good surf?" Tito said cheerfully.

"You know it, Tito," Otto replied. "Twist's a beast on the waves. He's almost as good as me!"

"Oh, please, Otto, don't flatter yourself," Reggie said flatly.

Ray didn't say anything. His eyes were fixed on Twister, though he waited until the gang were seated once more, this time around one of the tables. He drew in a calming breath through his nose, readying himself for what he wanted to ask. He was surprised when Twister suddenly looked up, meeting his gaze squarely. He reached for Clio, tapping his fingers at her hands, and she straightened at once, attentive, as Twister began to sign.

"'I know what you want to ask, Raymundo,'" she translated, "'But before you do, I just wanted to say, thank you for letting me use that board. It meant a lot to me, and I'm so grateful, like you wouldn't believe. I'm so sorry about your wife; I can tell that she was dear to you, and losing her was difficult for you. But I can also tell that you built that board for her, and it was an honor and a privilege to be the first to christen it at sea.' Oh, Maurice..." Clio grasped her cousin's arm.

Ray had to bite his tongue very, _very_ hard to keep tears at bay. But, by god, he would not weep in front of his children. Not again. Behind him, Tito set a steadying hand on his shoulder, squeezing once and letting go. Reggie, Sam and Otto had gone very quiet indeed, but it was not a gloomy or depressed silence; more of a respectful one.

Twister waited patiently, letting Ray recover himself. Ray came out from behind the bar, and Tito followed. The pair of them took seats at the table, with Ray facing Twister directly. He clasped his hands together, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, and chose his words carefully.

"Dani would have been proud and happy to see someone so experienced on that board," he said, his voice straining a little as he spoke of his wife, "Which is why I'm giving it to you, Twister."

The kids all stared at him in shock.

"Dad... are you serious?" Reggie whispered.

"I'm serious, princess. Tito got me to see that today – as did all of you," he looked at each teen deliberately, one by one. "Things like that aren't meant to waste away behind closed doors. They're meant to be enjoyed, and loved, and Twister proved today that he knows how to handle it."

Twister's jaw hung open for several seconds, his eyes wide. Clio raised an eyebrow at him, and he quickly closed his mouth again, swallowing a lump in his throat. Ray managed a light chuckle at the sight.

"I'll take that as a thank you," he remarked, before his features darkened again. "Don't think you've distracted me from another matter, however, young man."

Twister grew as serious as Ray did, and sighed, turning to Clio. She rubbed his arm soothingly.

"Take your time," she said softly. "Remember, these are good people, Maurice. Your new gift should be evidence enough of that for you."

"Hey, you're my new buddy," Otto put in. "Whatever you have to say, I'll support you. Same goes for Sam and Reg, too."

"And me," Tito added.

Twister shut his eyes, drawing in a deep breath. When he opened them again, he began his next 'speech', while Clio paid rapt attention, even though she already knew far too much about this story.

"'Four years ago, back in Tijuana, myself and 20 other kids were kidnapped from school by a cartel, for ransom money. Most of the families could afford to pay up, so they knew what they were doing. The only problem was, I wasn't supposed to be there. Our family isn't rich, and the hostage they wanted instead of me had the same last name. So they didn't release me with the others, when it came time to pay.

"'It didn't take them long to figure out they had the wrong boy, and normally, they would have killed me and gone into hiding afterward. But they decided to keep me – I remember their words. They said, 'Now we have a new plaything'. They locked me in a room for a month, and they tortured me for their own amusement.'"

Both Twister and Clio stopped, noticing that Ray looked absolutely stricken, turning deathly pale.

"You okay, bruddah?" Tito asked quietly.

Ray said nothing, but nodded slowly, indicating for Twister to continue. Twister didn't look any of them in the eye at this point, acutely aware of the looks everyone was giving him. Sam and Reggie had already known, of course, but it didn't make things any easier to hear, and they had only gotten a shortened version apiece, regardless.

Clio was holding tightly to Twister now, and she whispered an encouragement to him in Spanish, before he continued, his hands trembling.

"'A lot of the scars you saw are from them putting out cigarettes on me, or hitting me with a chain whip. They sometimes put my head underwater, too, but it was all a lot easier to deal with than the mind games they played. They wouldn't let me sleep very often, until they were sure I was hallucinating because of it. Then they would yell at me, nonstop, or play loud music, to confuse me and break me down.

"'They would sometimes pretend to be executing me; holding a shotgun to my head, or threatening me with a needle full of drain cleaner, things like that. They'd carry it out all the way to the end, and then they'd just stop and leave, like nothing had happened. The next day, they'd come back and say they had been practicing for the next time, when they would actually kill me.' Oye, Maurice, I'm right here," Clio interrupted her translation, feeling his trembling worsen, and seeing the haunted look in his eyes grow to terror. "Would you like to stop? You don't have to tell the rest."

Twister nodded, ever so slightly, his breathing hitching. He blinked rapidly, and suddenly pulled out of Clio's grip. She almost followed him as he left the Shack, but stopped when she saw he had also stopped at the shoreline barrier, a ways away from them, but still within sight.

"Maybe you should go talk to him," Reggie suggested in a small voice.

"No, he wants to be alone right now," Clio said sadly, staring after her cousin. "He'll come back in his own time. But I don't think we should make him discuss this any further today, Ray."

Ray looked absolutely haggard; _old_. He stared at nothing for so long that Otto and Reggie began to worry for him, until he straightened in his seat, running his hands over his face in exhaustion.

"I'm so sorry, Clio," he said wearily. "I didn't mean for him to feel pressured into telling us that."

"It may not seem like it right now, but it does help him," Clio replied, sitting back down. "He has a story to tell, and no voice to tell it with. When he can tell that story, it shows him he is listened to, and heard," she paused, apprehensive about her next choice of words, "He screamed for help for days, while they mocked him and beat him for it, and no one came to rescue him. And now he thinks, 'Why yell, or even speak, if no one is listening? Why do this if all that comes back is pain?'"

"He can't possibly believe that to be true," Ray said, astonished.

"He would say that rationally, he knows it's not true. But after a month of survival habit, it's something his mind has conditioned him to believe, and it steals his speech away from him. I don't think things like that are ever rational."

"How did he escape?"

All eyes turned to that meek, subdued voice. Otto looked almost frightened, and was as pale as his father had been. To their surprise, however, Clio smiled faintly at this.

"Drug dealers are idiots," she said, smirking, "_Especially_ the ones who get high off their own supply. Maurice escaped by himself, while they were all stoned and passed out on the floor. He walked four miles through the desert to reach Tijuana again, where the police were quick to pick him up... eh, a battered, naked boy staggering down the side of the road is, surprisingly, not as common a sight as you might think down there."

Tito grunted. "Tough kid."

"Very," Clio agreed, "Although he was hospitalized for awhile after that, as you can imagine. It took him a long time to even sleep and eat normally again, let alone recover from what was done to him. Sometimes, even now, he still has problems getting to sleep, and loud music, like the screaming metal stuff? He can't listen to it for very long."

"Did the police ever catch the dealers?" Sam asked.

"Oh, goodness, no. This is _Tijuana_ we're talking about. Even so close to the border, many of the cops are corrupt, especially so in Tijuana. Maurice was extremely lucky not to be thrown back into the jaws of the cartels, or simply killed on the spot. I think, though, that even the corrupt ones couldn't stomach the sight of him when they found him," Clio shivered. "He was too young."

* * *

_A/N: Oh my god there was so much Mary Sue in this. SO MUCH Mary Sue. And the volcanoes thing, why god. No. This is terrible, I'm so sorry._


	18. Chapter 17

Ray was alone tonight, having given Tito the evening off to take Sam's mother, Paula, on a date. He hummed to himself as he closed up the Shack, lowering the doors and setting the tables up for the next morning. He kept one door open, to better admire the ocean sunset that cast brilliant hues of orange and red across the sky, and to bring in the cool Autumn breeze.

He was finishing off the last table, setting the chairs back in their places, when someone he'd never seen before walked through the single open entry.

"Hey, sorry, but we're closed," Ray said automatically.

He frowned as he took in the stranger's appearance: he was a teenager, about Otto's age, and he was a little leaner – thin, but built, like he didn't eat much, but lived actively. He was clearly Hispanic, though a crew cut of brilliant orange hair seemed to defy this, and there was an air about him that told Ray he was no mere shoobie – that, and the kid literally lacked shoes, his ragged jeans ending in a pair of sand-coated bare feet. A black tank top covered his torso, accompanied by a small shark tooth necklace.

He had startled badly when Ray spoke up, and looked apologetic, though he didn't meet the restaurant owner's eyes. His hands went straight into his pockets, and he stood there awkwardly, head down, clearly wanting to ask something, though Ray wasn't sure what.

"You know, we open up at 8 tomorrow morning," he said helpfully. "Why don't you come back then? The burgers here are top-notch."

At the mention of 'burger', the boy looked up hopefully. There, in his eyes, was an insatiable desperation – hunger, Ray realized. He took in the boy's appearance again, and something nagged at the back of his mind. The kid's clothes weren't new or clean; in fact, there were holes in his shirt and pants, and his skin was bruised in places. For reasons not clear to him, it made Ray want to sit him down and feed him; comfort him.

"I-I'm sorry," the boy blurted, his voice raspy. "I, um... I don't mean to bother you, but... w-well... I was wondering if... if you had any food you were gonna, um... throw away."

Ray stared openly, the voice in his head screaming in victorious confirmation. "Food? Are you hungry?" _Stupid question, Ray._

The boy nodded, blushing, and hung his head again, this time in shame. "I'm sorry. I-I won't bother you again-"

"Hang on a sec, kiddo," Ray interrupted. "We don't keep unfrozen food overnight, but what do you say you join me and my kids for dinner tonight, huh? We're having pizza."

Again, came that desperate look, tempered only by shyness, and a certain amount of wariness. He was sizing Ray up as much as Ray was studying him, calculating whether to trust. Ray offered him a gentle, genuine smile, and – thinking quickly, pulled his wallet out. He tugged the picture of himself, Otto, Reggie and Sam out of one of the holders, and held it up for the boy to see.

"You might like them," he said cheerfully. "Reggie's my daughter, a little older than Otto, my son. Sam's just a friend, but he's a good kid, too. It'll be movie night tonight. You like horror movies?"

"I... I don't think I've really seen one," the boy mumbled.

"Well, I'm gonna finish closing here. You think about whether you want to come along – and if you don't, that's totally okay, too. Let me know, and if the answer is no, I'll get you something from the freezer to take with you. Okay?"

The boy considered it, and after a long silence, Ray left him to it, heart pounding in his ears. He knew it was risky, inviting a complete stranger into his home, but if he wasn't mistaken, this kid had no true home to go to, and was starving. The rasp in his voice, and the way he sometimes coughed, suggested he was sick, as well, which didn't sit right with Ray. A warm meal and warm bed, Ray decided; it was the least he could do to help.

He finished closing in record time, hitting all the lights and locking the doors. When he returned from the back, he found, to his relief, that the boy was still there, waiting hopefully. Ray smiled again, approaching him, though he stopped when the boy backed away a bit.

"Have you thought about it?" he asked.

"Yeah," the kid replied softly. "Um... are you sure it's okay to go with you? I-I... I don't wanna intrude or anything, man. I'm not exactly clean."

"Don't worry about it, kid. You can take a shower when you get to our place," said Ray. "My name's Raymundo, by the way. You can call me Ray. What's yours?"

"Twister..."

"'Twister', huh? Interesting name."

"Sorry, no, wait, I... I mean, my birth name is 'Maurice', it's just... everyone at the... um, everyone calls me 'Twister.'"

"Alright, Twister. So, how about it? You ready to go?"

"Yeah... yeah, o-okay."

Ray beamed, and ushered Twister out of the exit, closing off the last door and locking it. He led the way to the back, noting that Twister didn't quite walk beside him, instead choosing to keep Ray slightly ahead of him. It was understandable; he didn't trust Ray yet, and Ray was content to let him go at his own pace.

When they reached the Woodie, however, Twister hesitated, and Ray saw he'd gone a little pale. He stopped, raising his hands in a placating gesture.

"It's okay. Watch me," he soothed, opening the passenger door, rolling down the window, and popping the lock open. "I'll keep that open for you. I don't really recommend jumping out of a moving vehicle, but the locks aren't automatic. You can escape at any time."

Twister blushed again, realizing Ray understood his musings. But he approached the car, which Ray considered a victory. He climbed in after the boy, letting Twister get used to the layout of the vehicle, and he took care when he entered the driver's seat, moving slowly and deliberately. Twister still startled when the Woodie barked into life, and his hands flew to the handle and dashboard, his grip tight and anxious.

"Sorry. She's an old girl, this car. It's about ten minutes up the hill, alright?"

Twister nodded, and they lapsed into silence. This close to him, Ray was secretly glad he'd opened the window, because frankly, the kid stank of stale sweat and worse. Ray's sympathy overrode his disgust, however, as he could hear a definite, struggling wheeze in Twister's breathing now – he was definitely ill. As he drove, he also began wondering whether Otto would be willing to part with any of his clothes. He recalled a set of green baggies and a blue tank top, similar to the one Twister was wearing, stashed away ever since Otto's muscle and growth spurts had made him a tad too big for them. They would do nicely.

The house came within view in no time, and Ray pulled up into his driveway. The moment the car stopped, Twister shot out of the vehicle, and backed away several paces, looking skittish and nervous. Ray copied his earlier method, climbing gradually out of the car, and making his motions visible to the frightened boy. Twister eyed him with great caution, but his gaze darted between Ray and the house.

"Alright, I'm gonna go in first, and leave the door open," Ray told him. "You don't have to come in right away. Just remember that the kids are here, and they might be curious about you. Try not to be too alarmed – they can be a little rowdy sometimes."

As if to confirm his statement, a wild cheer sounded from within the house, and Twister flinched like he'd been struck. He probably had before, Ray thought, and the idea made his heart ache. He let Twister get a feel for the outside of the house a moment, then, true to his word, made for the door and entered, leaving it wide open.

Inside, more cheers came, as Otto, Reggie and Sam spotted Ray. They were camped in front of the couch, controllers in their hands, while they played a racing game on the console.

"Finally!" Otto cried, throwing down his controller, to Reggie and Sam's glee. "What took you?"

"Guys, can you pause the game a minute? I need to talk to all of you. And keep that door open, please, Sam," Ray added, as Sam got up to shut it.

The trio lined up before Ray, curious. He found himself contrasting their appearances to that of the young stray outside: even with typical teenage habits, they were cleaner; healthier. He sighed.

"What's up, dad?" Reggie asked, picking up on his mood.

"I've brought a guest home tonight," Ray told them straight. "I need you three to avoid making too many loud sounds or fast movements. He's a little bit jumpy."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Don't tell me you brought home a new puppy, Raymundo."

"Nope. He's as human as they come. In fact, he's your age, Sam and Otto. Just keep in mind that there's a lot he's not used to."

"We're a little old for you to be picking playmates for us," Reggie teased.

"Well, you don't have to be his friend, but I do want to try to convince him to stay here for tonight, and I expect you to show him courtesy and kindness. His name is Twister, by the way."

"'Twister?'" Otto snorted.

"Otto," Ray warned. "It's not his real name, but it's what people call him, or so he tells me."

"Sorry, dad. So, where is he? Is that why you left the door open?"

Ray nodded, glancing back. He held up a hand, indicating for the teens to wait, and carefully poked his head out the door, praying the boy hadn't run off. He was pleased to find that Twister was approaching, very slowly and steadily. When Ray appeared, he froze in his tracks, his eyes wide, but Ray beckoned, and then backed well away.

"It's alright, buddy," he soothed. "Come on in. They know you're here now. I promise, it'll be okay."

Completely perplexed, the Rocket gang watched on, wondering at this bizarre entry. A moment later, they blinked in shock, as a scruffy teenage boy shuffled through the door. He was glancing every which-way in alarm and awe, and he clung to the door frame, as if to let go would mean certain death. As he looked around, he spotted the trio, and stopped dead, alert and trembling. His breath caught, and Ray, sensing his panic, waved the kids back.

"It's alright, Twister. You're okay. Don't mind them; they're not gonna hurt you."

With great reluctance, Twister managed to enter the house properly. He kept his back against every wall he could manage, and never took his eyes off Ray or the kids. He stopped again when he was properly inside, and Ray moved to the stairs, guiding the way, deciding that for now, it was best not to shut the door and seal the kid's escape.

"There's a shower up here. Wouldn't you like a hot shower?" he offered.

Twister considered the offer again, looking between Ray and the door. To Ray's relief, he eventually began moving again, edging his way to the stairs. When he reached Ray's position, he took one last, fearful look back at the other teens, before letting Ray lead him up to the bathroom.

The second they were out of sight, the trio looked at one another, as if trying to confirm they'd all seen what they thought they had seen.

"This is nuts," Otto said bluntly. "Who the hell is he? What's dad thinking?!"

"Easy, Rocket Boy. I think... I think Twister might be homeless. And if that's the case, dad is doing a really good thing by inviting him in," Reggie countered.

"He certainly _smells_ homeless," Otto muttered. "I could smell piss on him from here."

"Hey! Remember what dad said about being kind? Of course he doesn't smell good. If he's been on the streets, it's probably been a long time since he even had access to food and shelter, let alone a good shower."

"Then why not take him to the homeless shelter?"

"It was shut down," Sam reminded him bitterly. "Worst policy this side of California."

Before Otto could belt out another complaint, Ray came tromping back down the stairs. He went to shut the door, then turned to face the kids, grimacing.

"Otto, can you do me a favor? Go dig in your closet for that old pair of baggies and the tank top you used to wear. I want to give them to Twister, since you don't use them."

Otto looked thunderstruck. "Dad! You're giving _him_ my clothes?!"

"You don't even wear them anymore," Sam reminded him. "Why not give them to Twister? Or do you actually want him to stay in reeking clothes the whole time he's here?"

Otto fumed, but as much as he didn't like to admit it, he knew Sam had a point. Muttering to himself, he stomped off to his room, behaving less like a sixteen-year-old, and more like a petulant child. Ray gave a well-worn sigh, seating himself on the edge of the sofa. Reggie smiled and set a hand on his shoulder.

"It's cool with me that you brought Twister here," she offered. "He really looks like he could use some help."

"Thanks, Rocket Girl. And 'help' is an understatement. I'm sorry to put this on you kids when tonight was supposed to be a fun night just for you, but I couldn't just leave him out there, especially not when he's sick."

"Where did you find him?" Sam asked.

"He wandered into the Shack while I was closing up. Asked me if there was any food I was throwing out, so I convinced him to ride home with me, so he could have pizza with us. Actually, that reminds me, can you two start setting the table for five? I'll order the pizza now."

"Yes, sir!" Sam and Reggie chorused, mock-saluting, before darting to the kitchen to begin preparation.

Upstairs, Otto had finished digging up the clothes requested by his dad. He scowled down at them at the mental image of Twister wearing them, then found he regretted his ire a little. As much as he disliked this strange guy in his house, he couldn't help but feel sorry for Twister. Sighing, he left his room, turning to shut the door out of teenage habit. As he did, he noticed that the shower had stopped running, and another door was opening.

Without thinking, Otto turned, then stopped in shock. Twister had stepped out, looking much cleaner, but had apparently neglected to dry off. He wore only a towel around his waist, which he fidgeted with, looking uncomfortable. What really drew Otto's eye, however, were the sheer number of scars on the boy's body. They varied in shape and size, and some looked older than others. One or two even looked somewhat recent, having not quite healed closed yet.

Twister abruptly looked in his direction then, sensing he was being watched. He jolted back when he saw Otto standing only a few paces away, but the door had closed behind him, and instead of retreating into hiding, he slammed into it. Otto and he both winced, and Otto – remembering his dad's entry earlier – held up a steady hand.

"Hey," he offered. "I, uh... well, I have some clothes for you, if you want them. Unless you plan on wearing that towel all evening, dude. Also, you should probably, like, dry off. Dad won't be happy if the carpet gets too soaked."

Twister stared at the clothes in Otto's other hand, then down at himself. There was a long, awkward silence, before Otto got a little fed up, and began approaching him, holding the clothes out in front of him. Twister flinched, but once he realized what was happening, he hesitantly reached out, and quickly snatched the clothes up, startling Otto.

Without even a moment of pause for thought, Twister then tore off his towel, and began drying himself quickly, right there in the hallway. Otto went crimson and turned around, gritting his teeth at the discovery that Twister apparently lacked much of a notion of dignity.

"Little warning next time, maybe," Otto mumbled to himself.

"Oh... shit. I-I'm sorry, man, I didn't... uh, my pants are on now... sorry..."

Surprised, Otto turned back. Like his dad, he heard the awful rasp in Twister's voice, but he was also a little astonished to hear the kid actually speak. He had a typical California-Hispanic accent, which was par for the course. Otto found himself chuckling then, despite his reservations.

"Just don't do that when Reggie's around – she'll definitely scream, and I wanna keep my ears. My name's Otto, by the way. Dad said your name is Twister... where'd you get a name like that?"

Twister pulled the tank top on, running his fingers over the fabric, as if he were touching velvet instead of plain cotton. "A guy at the shelter called me that," he said quietly. "He s-said it was... it was 'cause I reminded him of a-a storm when I got m-mad."

"Huh, no kidding? What's your real name?"

This time, Twister turned red. "Um... Maurice."

Otto was too late to stop a snort escaping him, though he covered his mouth, as if it might hide his mirth. Twister scowled at him, but after a pause, a small half-smile formed in its place. Otto didn't know why, but it relieved him to see Twister smile, even if it didn't last long. It sure as hell made a good change from the constant fear that was in the kid's eyes.

Just as he thought that, however, the fear returned at the sound of the doorbell. It scared Twister into jumping back again, and for a second time, he hit the door painfully.

Otto sighed. "It's alright, dude. It's just the doorbell. Pizza's here! When's the last time you had fresh pizza, huh?"

"Fresh?" Twister said, in awe. "Man, I... I don't remember."

"Then it's been too long. Come on, let's head downstairs."

Otto gestured, but Twister held his place, wariness creeping back into his expression. Otto then recalled how the kid had entered the house, and the way he never really turned his back on anyone.

"I'm not gonna hit you while your back is turned or anything," Otto said, laughing a little, before it died to nothing, and his grin faded, as Twister didn't smile. "You really don't like having people behind you, huh?"

Twister avoided his eyes. "No."

"You really think we'd hurt you, after all this?"

"It happened before."

Almost as soon as he said this, it was clear that he regretted it. He clammed up, as Otto gawked at him, partially perplexed, and partially sympathetic. Before he could start grilling the boy on it, however, footsteps sounded on the stairs. Twister, caught between two people in a narrow space, went rigid and pale, and Otto thought fast. He ignored the flinch provoked by his passing, and placed himself by the stairs, allowing Twister to turn and face both 'threats' at once, as Ray appeared on the landing.

"Hey there," Ray said gently, spotting Twister. "Those look good on you. Bet that shower felt nice, too. You look a lot better."

After a heavy pause, Twister nodded. "Th-thank you. For the shower and stuff, I mean... it couldn't have been all that great for you guys. I know exactly what I smelled like."

Otto huffed. "Man, I wasn't gonna say a word."

"I should hope not," Ray said, a slight warning in his voice, to which Otto responded with defensive hands. "Anyway, come on down, you two. Pizza's all ready."

Ray and Otto led without question, and Twister gave them some distance before he followed, his every sense alert for tricks and deception. As he entered the kitchen and dining area in their wake, he made note that there was a sliding back door exit. Sam and Reggie had already taken their seats, but as Ray shooed Sam into the next seat over, Twister realized Ray had reserved it for him, because it was closest to that door.

"Wasn't sure what kind of pizza you liked, Twister," Ray said, as he and Otto sat down. "There's Hawaiian, pepperoni, and bacon and mushroom..."

He trailed off, as Twister cautiously found his seat, and stared openly at the table. It was a simple arrangement – plates and a couple of Parmesan shakers, with the pizza boxes laid out in the middle – but the way he was studying all of it, it was as if it were a fancy dining array at a five-star restaurant. His eyes widened when Otto, impatient to start, opened up one of the boxes, and grabbed three whole slices of pepperoni, cramming them onto his plate. Reggie and Sam followed suit afterward, but Ray hesitated.

"Here, which one do you wanna try?" he offered, taking Twister's plate.

"I-I... I don't mind," Twister replied, blinking. "It's food."

"Hmm. In that case, one of each!" Ray said cheerfully, selecting three slices and planting the overloaded plate in front of the boy. "You want something to drink? Soda, juice?"

Twister settled on juice, and the meal began. Determined not to make things too awkward, Ray chatted to the kids about work, and asked them how school had gone. The conversation went well, for a few minutes, until Otto started laughing, his eyes on Twister.

"Dude, slow down! You're gonna make yourself sick!"

Twister, who had been utterly preoccupied with devouring his pizza, stopped at once, swallowing his most recent bite a little sheepishly, and setting half a slice down on a plate of nothing but crumbs. They all noticed that hunger in his eyes that Ray had seen earlier, but there was less desperation now, and more relief. With controlled slowness, he took a sip of his drink – before his eyes widened, and he clasped the cup with both hands.

"Easy, Otto's not kidding!" Sam warned.

"Sorry," Twister gasped, finally setting a half-empty cup down. "I-it's just been awhile..."

"Don't worry, we get it," Reggie told him, grinning, before she put on a more polite face. "What do you usually eat?"

"I don't, sometimes," Twister confessed. "But when there's food, I find it in the trash, or sometimes get it from, uh... from places like restaurants and grocery stores. Hence, y'know..."

"Hence, why you're here with us tonight," Ray finished. "It takes courage to approach a stranger and ask for help."

"I dunno if I'd call it that. When you're really hungry, everything looks like a good option. You sort of... abandon a lot of social rules and stuff, I guess."

"I'll say," Otto muttered.

"What was that?" Ray said sharply.

"Nothing!" Otto gave his dad a too-wide smile, and to the rest of the table's surprise, Twister managed a chuckle.

The laugh broke off fairly quickly, however, as the boy was gripped by a short coughing fit. He turned away from them, and had enough awareness to cover his mouth with a napkin. Ray watched him in concern, hearing the way he struggled to draw a full breath for a few moments. Because the fit was longer, the coughs were deeper, too, until they ended with a choking hack that made all of them wince.

"I'm sorry," Twister said, when he'd regained his breath.

"Sounds harsh," Sam said, a little uneasily. "You had that cough for long?"

"A month, I think... don't really remember."

"If it's okay with you, would you mind if I listened to your lungs after dinner?" Twister was not the only one to give Sam an odd look, and Sam grimaced, realizing his request sounded particularly strange. "Let me clarify," he added, "I have a stethoscope over at my place. It's right next door."

"Oh. Sam's training up as a lifeguard," Ray explained, catching on. "Though, what a lifeguard needs with a stethoscope, the world may never know."

"Hey, it helps to know how to use medical stuff," Sam argued. "Anyway, what do you say, Twister?"

"Uh... what does a stethoscope do?"

"It's something doctors use to listen to people's chests. It doesn't hurt or anything, and it might shed some light on what kind of illness you have, so we can get some medicine or treatment for you."

"O-okay, I guess that's alright, but... I-I can't really afford a doctor-"

"I'll cover it if you need one, Twister," Ray said firmly, in a voice that brokered no argument.

They resumed their meal normally after that, though Twister didn't say much, choosing instead to listen to the chat with open curiosity. He wasn't able to stomach more than those three slices, having gone without such a rich meal in some time, but he looked a little healthier, which satisfied some of Ray's worries.

Immediately after dinner, Sam dashed over to his house, to retrieve the aforementioned stethoscope. While Reggie and Otto cleared the table, Ray led Twister back to the living room, and coaxed him to sit down on the side where the back was against the wall. Before Twister could understand why he, alone, was sitting, Ray cast a blanket over him, mildly startling him. When a second blanket soon followed, Twister protested.

"I'll be okay with one," he mumbled. "But thank you."

"You'll take two. You're sick, Twister. Getting better means keeping warm and resting. Plus, we'll all be sitting here soon, anyway, for the movie."

Deciding arguing would be inadvisable, Twister resigned to his blanketed fate, though he was privately pleased by how soft and warm the blankets felt. Most nights, he slept with newspaper and cardboard, most of it on the ground, to insulate from cold. It wasn't too bad in Southern California, but late autumn and winter were tough seasons, regardless.

Ray left him for a little while, to help in the kitchen, and Twister felt himself slowly succumbing to the comfort that he hadn't had for so long. His body felt exhausted, and his eyes kept shutting against his will, while sounds cut in and out. At one point, he startled awake rather badly, and realized the settings around him had changed. Sam was suddenly back, and he was sitting nearby, fiddling with a stethoscope. Ray was there, too, and Otto and Reggie were just entering the room.

When Twister jerked awake, Sam sat up a little straighter, blinking, then gave him a reassuring smile. "Hey. You were out a minute there. You ready?"

"Y-yeah," Twister managed, blinking away his short sleep.

"Okay. So, it's pretty basic: I'll just have you lift your shirt, and I'll set this end here on your chest, and then your back," Sam explained.

Nervously, Twister scooted forward on the couch, pushing his blankets down and raising his shirt. He flinched as Sam put the earpieces in and drew near, but willed himself to keep still, while Sam set the cold metal against the boy's chest. Ray, Otto and Reggie watched on from a distance, both curious and concerned.

"Take deep breaths, big as you can," Sam instructed.

Twister tried, but found that doing so only sent him into another coughing fit. Sam frowned as he moved the stethoscope around and listened. Eventually, Twister's coughing stopped, and he managed to breathe steadily, though the wheezing was audible again. After a few minutes of poking and prodding, Sam withdrew, and Twister immediately lowered his shirt and pulled away a bit. Ray, still watching, noticed Sam's worried frown had deepened.

"What's up, Sammy?"

"Some pretty distinguished crackling on his right side," Sam reported, "Which indicates he may have some kind of chest infection, possibly pneumonia. It's hard to tell. Do you happen to have a thermometer around? I need to get his temperature."

"Sure, hang tight."

"Pneumonia?" Twister asked weakly.

"Hopefully not," Sam reassured. "We still need your temperature, but regardless of what it turns out to be, I do think bringing in a doctor will be the wisest course of action."


	19. Chapter 18

Twister was scared; that much he knew. He'd been utterly terrified and ashamed, last night, and nothing would ever come close to the sheer level of fear and humiliation he'd felt then. But today's fear was a close second, and his heart raced so fast, he swore the other students could hear it. He didn't care much about the lesson, even though art was one of his better subjects; all he knew was that he had to carry out his plan, today, or else risk losing his mind over the worries that ate him up inside. Those same worries, and the events of the night, had him feeling exposed, as if he were naked, and all eyes felt like they were boring into his back. He couldn't take it.

But there was Reggie, sitting in the desk beside him, paying rapt attention to the lecture. If he wanted her help, he knew he'd have to do something soon, or else risk losing her in the rush to lunch. Twister fumbled with his notebook, working carefully and quietly to tear out a blank sheet. His hands shook, and he fought to still the tremor, as he began writing his short note. He folded it tightly and waited, watching until the teacher turned his back. The minute the man looked away, Twister's hand shot out, and set the note on Reggie's desk, before he quickly withdrew it.

Reggie schooled her reaction, acting casual and maintaining her interest in the board, but she noticed Twister's note, alright. With patient care, she moved it closer to herself, while looking like she was taking notes from the lecture. As she faked writing something down, she unfolded the paper to read the message:

_I need to talk to you alone after class. It's really important._

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Twister watching her with sick anticipation, and both his pallid face and the short urgency of the note brought a surge of worry bubbling to the surface of her mind. She, too, waited until the teacher had turned his back, before looking directly at Twister, and nodding her affirmative. The relief in his eyes only made her worry more.

The bell went off not long after that. Students shuffled out eagerly, and Reggie and Twister went with them. Twister walked just ahead of her, following the flow of foot traffic, and she frowned as he began making his way along the hall. She followed as best she could, though she noticed that he waited up for her a little. It was as if he were afraid to be seen talking to her, and that troubled her the most.

Soon enough, Twister broke off from the throng, making his way out one of the side doors that led to the workshops, and Reggie knew he sought the relatively deserted area behind the buildings. From this, she gathered that whatever he wanted to discuss with her was private, and she made sure no one followed them out.

She lost sight of him briefly after this, but followed her conclusion, and found him again, moments later. To her surprise, he had cast his backpack to the ground, and was sliding down the wall of one of the buildings, settling in a sitting position and putting his head in his hands, with his knees drawn up. Worry spiked, and she quickened pace, then crouched down beside him, searching his face for explanation.

"What is it, Twist?" she asked softly. "What's wrong? I haven't seen you this scared since we were kids. Are you alright?"

Twister couldn't meet her eye, but the look of conflicted anguish in his was unmistakable. "I'm sorry if I worried you..." he mumbled.

"It's okay," Reggie said, moving to sit down beside him. "Talk to me."

"Um... I don't really know how to do this..." Twister replied, his voice fracturing. "I just... uh... c-can I ask you a question?"

"Shoot."

"You promise you won't, ah, won't laugh at me?"

"I _promise_, Twister. Now, come on. What's up?"

"Um... do you k-know anything a-about... about... no, I... fuck!" Twister shouted. He gripped his hair suddenly, so hard that it shocked Reggie, and she reached out to stop him. "Fuck it. Fuck it! Oh, dios, I can't do this..."

His voice broke again, and Reggie realized he was trying hard not to cry. "Twister. You're really worrying me right now. Try to take some deep breaths, and tell me what's going on."

He drew in shaky, uneven breaths, as instructed, and shut his eyes, which caused the tears there to fall down his cheeks. Reggie abandoned all thought of space, and rubbed his arm gently. It had a strange effect – it calmed him a little, yes, but it also made him go tense, and he inhaled sharply, unable to breathe, until he remembered the instruction again, and started trying to calm himself. The tension remained, however, and Reggie withdrew her hand, sensing his discomfort.

"Reg," Twister tried again, "What does it mean if... if a guy... a guy has sex with another dude, but that dude isn't gay?"

Reggie blinked, taken aback, and tried to crush down the embarrassment that followed this bizarre inquiry. "Uh... I'm not... sure? It could mean they're experimenting, I guess. Why?"

"I'm not fucking gay," Twister whispered, hiding his face. "I'm not gay, but we... I don't know. I don't know why I'm even talking to you about this! I-I'm scared, Reg, I'm so scared. I don't understand what he wanted, why the fuck he wanted to do that."

"Hey, hey, slow down," Reggie told him, hearing his panic. "Did you... did you have sex with a guy? Is that what you're trying to say? It's okay if you did."

"Yes! But it... it was more... more like he, ah, he had... he had sex with me."

Twister stated this bitterly, with the vile taste of his shame in his mouth. It was not the only taste; he could taste _him_, and feel everything happening all over again, and bile threatened to rise up. He didn't care to stop his tears anymore, already well past the point of feeling embarrassed by them.

Reggie remained oddly quiet, and a terrible silence stretched out, as she processed and deciphered this information. A hollow pit formed in her stomach, and her mouth went dry, as dread at the implication rose. But she couldn't be certain that what she thought he was saying, was what he was actually saying. She steeled herself, determined to get to the bottom of this.

"Twister, did you _want_ to have sex with him?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Twister went quiet for a long time, and he shook with silent sobbing, his arms wrapping around his knees as he lowered his head. Reggie wanted badly to draw him close and hug him, but she was no longer certain that this was a wise idea.

"Twist, I need to know," Reggie insisted, her own voice trembling. "Did you consent?"

"No."

With that single, simple word, so pathetically and brokenly uttered, Reggie's heart shattered into a million pieces, a million times per beat. Her jaw fell open, and her brows knitted with despair. She covered her mouth with both hands as she watched Twister, as if this might take back his answer. His crying worsened, and he choked out such devastating cries of distress between hyperventilating breaths, that Reggie began to cry, too.

"Oh, my god... oh, god, I'm so sorry..."

That seemed to break something else in Twister, and he abruptly reached out to her and clung on, as if to let go would mean certain death. She held him just as tightly, while he wept into her shoulder, and she didn't care to uphold her tough girl persona, as she hushed him and rocked him like a child.

They stayed like this indefinitely, it seemed, though Reggie was certain she distantly heard the bell, signaling the end of lunch period. She didn't care, even knowing her next class had an important presentation. Twister was hurt and broken, and if he needed her to remain here, then here she would remain, for as long as necessary.

It took him a long time to really calm down a little, though Reggie suspected he was exhausted, rather than feeling better. When he'd stopped shaking so badly, and his sobbing had ended, he pulled away from her. His tears didn't cease, as he went back to his former position, looking ashamed again. His body language had him cringing under her scrutiny, and he didn't look at her.

She let him sit awhile, sharing the silence with him, for it was not an uncomfortable one. The weight of his confession was heavy indeed, and stayed in the air around them, but the unbreakable bond they had formed long ago, as children, held it in place, and gave Twister the ability to put his absolute trust in Reggie.

"I thought he was joking at first," Twister said at last, his voice hoarse and lifeless. He stared ahead, with a blankness in his eyes that scared Reggie a little. "He was being rough, you know, like pushing me around and laughing. I-I thought it was like... like he was play-fighting, so I pushed back... and then he hit me. _Really_ hit me – so hard I think he knocked me out... and the next thing I felt was... was him tying up my wrists, behind my back. He put me on the bed, and I couldn't... I didn't understand what he was doing until he... until he pulled down my pants and st-started... started kissing my neck, a-a-and I... I felt him. I felt him trying to... to go in."

Reggie listened in silence, and watched as Twister rubbed a spot on the back of his head – an area she suddenly realized looked a little swollen, though it was mostly hidden by his hair. She tried to drive away the terrible images his story was conjuring in her head, but couldn't, as he went on.

"I tried to scream for help, but he covered my mouth. When he... when he was on top of me, he kept whispering in my ear... he said if I made too much noise, he'd kill me, a-and I believed him... but he told me he still w-wanted... wanted me to sound... distressed. That it would turn him on more. And it hurt so bad, Reg, I couldn't stop crying, it hurt and it... he was there, he was _touching_ me all over, a-and I couldn't get out-"

"Shh," Reggie soothed, taking his hand and holding tight, as his voice rose with his fear. "I'm right here, Twist. And he's not here, do you understand me? I know he hurt you. I know. But you're safe here, with me."

"I-I can't get him out of my head," Twister choked. "The smell and taste of him. Th-the... the way he fucking... he reached around and m-made me... made me get off, and I didn't want to, I didn't want it, but he made me... h-he made me cum. A-and it's like he's still touching me... still there, still controlling me and making me feel shit I don't want to feel. I-I didn't even get to try to wash him off of me. After he was done, he made me shower with him. He made me... made me kneel down, and he... he made sure I wouldn't feel safe in there. He made sure I'd remember him when I tried to clean him off of me."

Reggie shut her eyes, willing away the pain that came from this. She opened them again in alarm, however, when she felt Twister pull away suddenly, with desperation, before he fell to his side and abruptly threw up. Little else but bile came up, and Reggie moved to crouch by him again, supporting him while he retched and coughed.

"I-I'm sorry," he gasped, when he'd recovered.

"It's okay. You couldn't help it. Honestly, I'd... probably hurl, too."

She pulled him away from the mess, easing him back down, then reached into her pack to retrieve water. While he rinsed out his mouth and drank small sips, Reggie sighed and sat back down next to him.

"I'm proud of you for telling me," she said gently. "It takes a lot of courage to even be able to ask for help, but you did it, and I'm so proud of you. If it's okay with you, can I ask you a question now?"

Twister nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak yet.

"Do you feel like you'd be able to report this to someone in authority?"

More shame. It radiated off him in waves, and Reggie winced in sympathy. Twister had long had issues with even admitting to things that bothered him; part of it was to do with his culture, Reggie knew, for the older generations of his family were deeply, ridiculously Latino, and everything having to do with boys and men showing weakness, or admitting to suffering, was _extremely_ taboo. He had learned to keep his pain close and hidden as a result, and Reggie hated it, because she wanted to help him. Yet,_ he _had still come to _her_ for help, and that spoke untold volumes about the level of violation he'd suffered.

"I don't know if I can," Twister admitted quietly, looking down. "What if... what if I tell Officer Shirley, and she tells my parents? They won't understand, Reg. They'll think I'm gay, a-and they'll kick me out, or send me to church camp or some shit."

Reggie tried to wrack her brain for options. "Maybe Officer Shirley is off the table for now," she offered, "But I do think it would be a good idea to go to a doctor, or at least the school nurse. They're _required_ to keep information confidential if a patient asks them to, so you'd be able to stay anonymous."

"A d-doctor? Wh-why?"

"It would just be to make sure you're okay, physically."

Twister paled. "F-for... for stuff like... like bleeding?"

An unpleasant shiver ran down Reggie's spine. "You mentioned that... that it hurt. Was there any blood at all, could you tell?"

Twister hid his face from her as he nodded. Reggie suddenly felt sick, and had to fight not to join Twister in losing the contents of her stomach. "Okay," she said, through a deep breath, "That's a good reason to go see a doctor. They can help you, and they'll do the best they can to make you feel safe."

"I don't wanna go alone."

"I can come with you, if you want."

He nodded again, the motion barely perceptible. Reggie caught it, regardless, and sighed sadly. They sat there for another long stretch, ignoring another bell. Twister was very still, and Reggie thought he might still be processing the shock of having confessed everything to her. She wondered, briefly, why it was her, in particular, that he had chosen to come to. The answer, of course, was that she wasn't a guy. Sam might have understood and listened, but Twister wouldn't have been able to tell the whole truth with him, and Otto was out of the question; he was just as macho-oriented as Twister could be.

Which left her: Big Sister Reggie. The one person that, consciously or not, the guys had always kind of looked to for protection and advice. It was a responsibility she bore most often with Otto, and least often with Sam, but there were plenty of times she'd also played the role for Twister, too. In a way, this responsibility finally reminded her of where, exactly they were, and what the time was; school would be over and done with soon.

"Hey," she prompted, "We can't sit here forever. I know you probably don't feel like moving, but the Twister I know and love would _really_ hate getting stuck at the school overnight."

Success; her teasing didn't draw a smile from him, but he gave a short huff, which was as close to a laugh as she was going to get out of him right now. She got to her feet first, then held out her hand, smiling kindly for him as he looked up, and hesitantly accepted it.

She kept close by him, almost hovering, as they picked their way slowly back to the main campus. Almost as soon as they broke the cover of the workshops, they heard the bell go, and were soon met on their path inside by the cyclical flow of students going between classes.

"Reg?" Twister said, stopping and watching the people apprehensively.

"What's up?"

"I don't feel like going back to class."

"Wasn't planning on taking you there. I thought we might take you to the nurse's office. You don't have to tell them anything," she added quickly, as Twister grew afraid, "But we could tell them that you're just not feeling well. You look the part, too."

This time, she did get something of a grin, though it was more of an anxious response than anything else. Reggie took lead through the crowd, strategically keeping in front of Twister, so that most passing students didn't get a chance to stare at his post-crying features. He kept his head down, regardless, and they had just made it to the door to the nurse's office, when a call came from behind them.

"Reggie! Twister! Yo, wait up, guys!"

Reggie groaned. "Not now, Otto..."

Otto and Sam came dashing up to them, and Twister quickly turned away, finding sudden interest in his shoes. Reggie did the opposite, turning to face the approaching boys, and for a split second, sad clarity struck her. Sam and Otto were _happy_; innocent. They wore easy expressions, like they hadn't a heavy care in the world, and it made her feel so tired and – dare she say, in her teenage years – _old_. Twister should have carried those expressions, too, she thought. He should have been allowed to keep his innocence.

"Jeez, Reg, where's the funeral?" Otto remarked, frowning back at her, as he and Sam halted. "And where have you guys _been?!_ Mrs. Luellen flipped shit when she realized you weren't in class!"

"Otto-"

"Twister, dude, are you lost in space again?" Otto went on, ignoring his sister's murderous scowl, as he tried to get around her to see his best friend. "How'd you get _Reggie_, of all people, to skip class?"

Sam, with his greater perception, quickly picked up on the mood. He couldn't see Twister with Reggie in the way, but he knew, from her stance, and Twister's lack of response, that something was seriously wrong. He pulled Otto back quickly, giving Reggie a questioning look. She shook her head, ever so slightly, in a way that her younger brother completely missed, and Sam's worries surfaced further. It took him only a glance at their location to piece together more of the story.

"Hey, is he sick?" he asked openly, to Reggie's immense relief.

"Yeah. Sorry, guys, I was just helping him out. I think he needs to go home."

"You okay, Twist?"

Twister still didn't reveal himself to them. "I-I'm fine, Squidman, j-just don't feel good."

"Dude, have you been _crying?_" Otto blurted, incredulous.

"Otto. Not now, okay? You guys should go," Reggie snapped back.

She turned away from them, and set a careful hand on Twister's arm, guiding him through the door. For the briefest of moments, Otto and Sam got a good look at him at last, and the sight of just how miserable and dejected he appeared made them go quiet. Then he was gone, with Reggie behind him, to shield him from further scrutiny, leaving two very confused boys in their wake.

"This is bogus," Otto muttered. "He totally looked like he'd been crying. But it's _Twister_. He wouldn't weep like a baby."

"Hey, come on, lay off. He's not feeling well. I seem to distinctly recall a time when you were crying after throwing up for two days in a row-"

"Alright, okay, can it! Sorry. But maybe we should go with them... you know, just to make sure he's okay."

Sam squinted. "Is that _concern_ I hear in your voice, Otto Rocket?"

"Bros look out for their bros," Otto defended, folding his arms. "Now come on!"

Before Sam could protest, Otto had his arm in a firm grip, and was dragging him through the door to the nurse's office. As they entered, they were just in time to see a nurse escort Twister into one of the private side rooms. Reggie was nearby, looking like she desperately wanted to follow, but the nurse wouldn't allow it.

"Reg?!" Twister cried.

"It's okay! It's going to be okay, Twister," Reggie reassured, as Twister looked back at her anxiously. "I'll be right outside the whole time. Remember, you don't have to say anything you don't want to."

Twister reluctantly allowed the separation, and the nurse quietly closed the door behind them, leaving Reggie standing there, gripping her hair in frustration. She turned around, perhaps to begin pacing to alleviate some stress – then stopped cold, as she saw Sam and Otto, standing there, gawking.

"I thought I told you guys to _leave_," she thundered, gritting her teeth. "He doesn't need you to crowd him right now!"

"All well and good, sis. Except he's our _friend_. And you know what? You look like you've been crying, too. What the hell is going on? How come he looked so scared?"

"It's _none_ of your business, Otto!"

Reggie nearly screamed in frustration, then threw up her hands, and angrily took a seat in one of the waiting chairs. Otto was about to snap back with a sibling-tier argument, until Reggie covered her face with her hands. As before, this made both boys go awfully quiet, until – on unspoken agreement – they both took a seat next to her, on either side. Sam reached out and put a comforting hand on her shoulder, which she didn't bother shrugging away.

"Talk to us, Reg," he said benignly. "You can trust us."

"Yeah. I'm sorry I got in your face," Otto added.

"Guys, it's not that I don't appreciate you or trust you," Reggie sighed, "It's just... it's not for me to say, okay? Twister asked for my help, and it's Twister's choice whether he wants your help or not."

Sam stared, shocked. "He... he actually... came to you? Openly. Without trying to hide?"

"Yes. And that's part of the whole problem. It wasn't easy for him to tell me, but he trusted me anyway. And I can't break that trust. He's already had enough hurt..." she trailed off, shaking her head, realizing she was already saying too much.

"I thought you said he was sick," Otto said, frowning. "He's hurt?"

Reggie refused to comment any further, holding her arms close to herself. Sam shot a warning glare at Otto when it seemed he would press again, and Otto huffed, flopping back in the chair, and descending with them into a gloomy silence. Reggie almost prompted them to leave, but the truth was, she felt like she needed their company right now, even if it was clueless company.

Half an hour went by before that far door opened again, and when it did, Reggie shot out of her seat. Sam and Otto stayed, unsure whether to proceed or not. Twister, however, didn't leave the room; he was still inside, sitting on the little medical bed. The nurse looked tired and fretful, and she whispered something to Reggie, who nodded in response. A second later, Reggie went in after her, the door closing once more.

"Gee, thanks," Otto spat.

"You heard what Reggie said," Sam said. "Besides, I'm not sure whether Twist even knows we're here."

"Sammy. You're the nerd-"

"Gee, _thanks_."

"What I mean is, can't you, like... Sherlock us a conclusion out of this, or something? Use your powers of observation, Squid! You talk about them enough."

Sam removed his glasses momentarily, to rub the bridge of his nose. "I'm not a mind-reader, or a magician," he sighed. "That's Eddie's job."

Otto blinked. "You saying we should go get Eddie?"

"No, do _not_ get Eddie. Just... I'm not sure what to think of all of this. Something is obviously really wrong with Twister, but by the way Reggie was acting, I doubt it has anything to do with illness, specifically, or even injury."

"She said he was hurt-"

"It may not be the kind of hurt you're thinking of. Emotional or mental hurt, most likely, though it's odd that he'd go to a nurse for that."

Otto snorted. "Dude, it's Twister. He doesn't do emotions. He's a guy!"

"And we have feelings too," Sam reminded him. "I think Twister might even be more sensitive than us. Only, he's better at hiding it, most of the time. If something hurt him enough to ask Reggie for help, it must be really serious."

Otto pondered this. "What if he's being bullied?"

"It's a possibility, but we shouldn't jump to conclusions."

"If he is, I'm gonna kill whoever picked on him. But I wish he'd just tell us! He knows we won't make fun of him."

"Like all those times you totally didn't make fun of him for wanting to sing. And that time you didn't make fun of him for being afraid after he fell off his board. And that time you definitely didn't make fun of him for-"

"Okay! I get it! Stop! Jeez. I always apologized, anyway, and it's not like I did it out of spite. He's my _best bro_. And if he got hurt somehow, and I wasn't there to protect him..."

"Easy, Otto. I get it – I'm worried about him, too. But we're gonna just have to chill, and hope he comes to us."

"And if he doesn't?"

"If he doesn't... we support him anyway, even if we're in the dark. That's what friends do."

…

Otto was startled out of a brief doze by the loud ringing of his phone. He fished around in his pockets until he found it, and when he saw both the time and the caller, he winced, and reluctantly answered.

"Hey, pops."

"Otto, where are you guys? You were supposed to come straight to the Shack after school! You're half an hour late."

"I know, I know, but I'm waiting in the nurse's office with Sammy-"

"The nurse's office? Why? What happened? Please don't tell me you tried to skate through the halls again-"

"Chill, dad, it's nothing like that. We're waiting for Twister and Reggie... I don't really know what's going on – Reg just said Twist was sick, but they've been in with the nurse for like an hour, and Reg won't say what's bugging Twist. He just looked super upset, and he'd been crying."

"Crying? Twister?" Otto heard Ray pause to take this in. "I'm coming over there."

"I don't know if that's a good idea-"

"Otto, if Twister is sick, I'm responsible for taking care of him. His parents are away, remember?"

Otto bit back a curse, and traded a look with Sam, who had been listening intently. "Pop, did you miss the part where I said Reg wasn't saying anything? She said it was Twister's choice to tell us what's happening. I don't think he's gonna like it if you come in guns blazing."

"It won't be 'guns blazing', but I'm still coming out there. I can't believe the school didn't call me already... stay where you are, okay?"

"Okay, dad."

Otto hung up and let his head drop back dramatically. "This just keeps getting better..."

Before he could continue his bitter complaining, however, the door finally opened again, and this time, the nurse beckoned to them both. "Your sister wants to see you."

Sam and Otto only hesitated for a beat, before they both shot towards her. She responded with a murderous look, and with a gesture, bade them be more tame. Subdued, but still anxious about their friend, they entered the room.

Twister was still on the bed, but had his back turned away, and lay curled up, with his arms over his head, asleep. Reggie sat on the edge next to him, and was rubbing his shoulder comfortingly, in slow, automatic movements. She looked up when Otto and Sam entered, and they were astonished to see that fresh tears had recently fallen from her eyes.

"Reg, what's going on?" Otto asked weakly, taken aback. "Seriously, is he okay?"

"No, Otto. He's not," Reggie replied quietly. "Take a seat. This is gonna be... hard to hear."

"Raymundo's on his way here, you know," Sam put in. "He just called us."

"Well, he's gonna have to wait outside. It was already hard enough for Twist to decide to tell you guys about this, and he's done. Okay? He's done. I don't want anyone else questioning him for awhile. He gave me permission to tell you two, and _no one_ else. Not even dad."

Otto looked at the nurse pointedly at this, and got a glower and folded arms in response.

"She's the exception, dummy. She already knows," Reggie snapped, before stilling her voice, and looking worriedly down at Twister, as he stirred a little at the commotion.

"I'm sworn to confidentiality," the nurse said gruffly. "I'd lose my job if I ever went and blabbed, and I'd deserve it, too. So listen to what your sister has to say, boys."

Sam and Otto declined to sit, at first, having spent the last hour in uncomfortable waiting room chairs. As Reggie began telling them all that had transpired, however, first Sam, then Otto, forgot their discomfort and slumped into the seats, as shock slowly took hold of them. By the time Reggie finished updating them, they both appeared pale, and Sam was drawing from his inhaler frantically.

"What... what's going to happen to him now?" Otto asked shakily, after a pained silence.

"I'd like him transferred to an actual medical facility, soon as he recovers here," the nurse put in. "Just for overnight observation. Now, Raymundo _will_ need to know that he's in the hospital, but the reason will still be completely confidential. As for the long road... I recommend you support Maurice to the best of your ability. He's suffered a serious trauma, boys, and he's going to need time to recover."

"Did he tell you who his attacker was?" Sam asked.

"No," Reggie paused. "I think it's probably better if we wait on that."

"But that would mean that a _rapist_ is just walking around free..."

"I know that, Sammy, and it scares me a little, too. But Twist isn't ready to talk about that, and the hospital... um, they have tests to try to determine that kind of thing, regardless."

Sam went still. "Rape kits."

"Dude..." Otto muttered, looking disturbed.

"It's what they're called. They're forensic medical tests, used to collect an attacker's DNA from the victim... though I don't know if there would be anything after this long-"

"Dude!" Otto said again. "Stop. I don't need that kind of detail right now."

"Sorry. It's just the facts. And if it helps catch the guy who did this to Twister..."

"I still don't get that. I didn't think Twist was... that way."

"He's not gay, Otto, and what happened to him doesn't make him gay," Reggie said dangerously. "Even if he were, it wouldn't matter. It was still rape."

…

The world faded out. All sound seemed to stop; all movement became nothing more than a backdrop. He felt the hand pull him out of the crowd, and for the longest moment in time, he was back on that bed, bound and helpless, while his tormentor whispered in his ear and violated him. His skin crawled, and endless shivers ran up and down his spine – up and down, playing him like an instrument.

It was a memory, he told himself. A memory, and not the reality in which he was safe. He saw his friends, not far ahead, but far enough that they didn't notice his distress.

Then the crowds were gone, and he was still being pulled backwards, by a force he didn't have the presence of mind to counter. He found himself in a small side classroom, alone, save for the hand on his shoulder. He was turned in place by that hand, and was startled to find that the hand belonged to a person. It was a face he knew – _dreaded_ to know – and it was leering close, giving him a predatory, sensual grin.

"Hello again. Where have you been, beautiful? I missed you."

Some part of him reacted with rage, but only for a moment, drowned as it was by screaming; internal, uncontrollable screaming, that froze every one of his muscles in a deadlock, and stole his breath. The owner of the Cheshire smile slowly backed him into the wall, then pushed against him, bringing his body close to Twister's, and trapping him there.

That hand lunged, jumping from shoulder to ear, to grab on, while another hand reached between his legs, to begin pawing and massaging his groin. The attacker drew his head closer to his victim's face, nuzzling against him, before forcefully kissing him. Twister tried to turn from the kiss, and was only rewarded with a cruel pain in his ear from the tightening hold. He turned his head the other way, letting out a terrified whimper.

"No, no," the other boy tutted, nuzzling him again, and running his tongue along the boy's cheek. "No noise. Haven't I told you before? You'll get us caught."

"Please... please, don't do this," Twister begged. "I won't tell anyone, just let me go-"

"No, you won't tell, will you? You're mine, baby. All for me. You felt so good last time, I just couldn't stand the thought of being away from you for much longer."

He forced Twister into another kiss, and it was all Twister could do to stop himself from howling in revulsion. When the hand at his crotch began deepening the massage, stroking rhythmically, the unwelcome stirring of pleasure began in his body. It was a terrible juxtaposition of ecstasy and disgust, but there was nothing he could do to stop this reaction. His attacker chuckled against his lips.

"There's a good boy," he breathed. "Such a good boy, already excited to see me. Maybe this time I'll give you a little treat... but I want to go first. There won't be a class in here all the rest of today, my love. We have all the time in the world."

He withdrew, moving his hands to Twister's shoulders, and pressing down hard. Twister cried out again, only to be silenced as he was struck across the face. He dropped to his knees, feeling blood spring up from his nose, then began to panic, as his rapist grabbed him by the hair and pressed his groin firmly against Twister's face. He could feel the arousal, and it nearly made him vomit.

"Don't you throw up," the husky voice above him said. "It's okay to choke."

Twister closed his eyes, feeling tears fall, as a hurried hand fumbled about. When he heard the sound of a zipper, he panicked, flashbacks bombarding his fragile mind. He wasn't all that aware that he'd begun fighting back – at least, he wasn't until a slamming, terrible pain erupted from the side of his temple. He hit the floor, hard, and could only lie there with ringing ears, sobbing weakly. He felt the other climb on top of him, and fingers began trying to pry open his mouth. He turned his head desperately, howling, before another blow stunned him.

He did vomit then, as he felt the bare skin of his rapist's erection trying to press into his mouth. The attacker cursed, but didn't stop, instead gripping Twister's head with both hands, and wrapping his knees around his neck.

"Open your mouth," came the angry instruction. "Open it!"

Twister refused, not because he had any fight left in him, necessarily, but because his whole existence had fallen out of place. He knew both present and past, simultaneously, and with each bearing a cruelty unimaginable, he was being sucked into a black abyss that lay just between them. He didn't know he was still crying out, and his rapist was too distracted trying to please himself to realize how loud these cries were.

Just as he managed to jam his fingers into his victim's mouth, the door burst open.

"Get off of him! GET THE _FUCK_ AWAY FROM MY FRIEND!"

Shouting began – a voice Twister was familiar with, but had never heard so furious and hysterical before. The weight of his attacker disappeared abruptly, and there was a scuffle of slamming desks, and swearing that would put brigands and sailors alike to shame.

Someone grabbed him then, and his panic returned, flinging him full-force into the reality of his situation once more. He thrashed, arms connecting with someone, but those hands didn't let go, and he found himself being pulled up off the floor, and well away from the ongoing commotion. As he was made to sit against the wall, his heart raced madly, and he began hyperventilating, unable to control the horror in his bones.

"Twister, look at me, dude. Look at me."

Two more faces appeared in front of him, and though he recognized them as Otto and Sam, he couldn't respond. Otto was closest, and there was fear, rage, disgust and sorrow in his eyes. He looked right at Twister, trying to ground him – focus him.

"It's me," he said firmly. "It's Otto. Stay with me, bro."

"Twister, buddy, you need to breathe, okay?" Sam added. "Deep breaths."


	20. Chapter 19

"It's quite alright, Twister. Just relax."

Twister didn't feel 'quite alright', despite Oliver's reassurances. He pulled uneasily at the straps around his wrists. "A-are you sure about this, dude?"

"It should be perfectly safe," Oliver said with disinterest. "And just think of the data we'll get from this! You'll be a hero to the sciences, my dear boy. Imagine, your name in every prestigious journal in every state, as the one who tested the limits of human endurance."

Though the attraction of fame appealed to him, Twister still didn't feel right about any of this. Oliver and his band had only approached him with the experiment an hour ago, and railroaded him with babble of 'need for someone with appropriate levels of strength, and below-curve intellectual skills', whatever that meant. All he really understood was that Oliver wanted someone who could stand up to pain, and he'd decided he matched the profile.

Now, lying on a cold medical table, surrounded by and hooked up to all kinds of unknown instruments, Twister had to admit, he was a little scared. Attempts to make small-talk with Oliver's passing friends had failed, and left him fidgeting nervously, unable to draw his focus to something calming.

"There we are," Oliver declared, setting a pair of sticky wires on Twister's forehead. "All done!"

"You mean I can go?"

"No, not just yet. The next phase of the study is commencing. Now, just lie as still as possible. Ready, Trevor?"

"Ready," one of Oliver's colleagues replied nasally.

"Clear the table. On my mark... three... two... one... MARK!"

At the exact moment of Oliver's cry, Twister felt a surge of unimaginable pain shoot through his entire body. He went rigid, his back arching off the table, but his movements were not in his control. He couldn't see; couldn't breathe, couldn't escape... and then it ended, leaving him choking and gasping. He felt tears run down out of the corners of his eyes.

The boys around him applauded and murmured, ignoring his weak cries. And there was Oliver again, leaning in over him, and shining a bright light into his eyes.

"Well done, Twister! We got an excellent reading out of that one. Now, to evenly match the data, we'll need to perform the test at least five more times, to be certain-"

"No!" Twister gasped. "Please don't, I wanna stop. Please?"

"But, that's simply unacceptable! We can't stop now! The data is incomplete."

"Oliver, please, I don't wanna do that again, it really hurt!"

"Twister, when you agreed to participate in my study, you did give your consent for this."

"What do you mean? I don't understand-"

"Prepare for the next shock. Clear the table! On my mark... three... two... one... MARK!"

"Oliver, please stop, please-!"

His cries died out in an agonized, heaving gasp, and the pain began anew. This time, a ringing began in his ears, and he barely noticed when the shock actually stopped, for his muscles still spasmed painfully afterward. His head dropped to the side, and his breathing came shallow and fast. He could see, through a blurry haze, the students around him, fiddling with instruments. He tried to ask them for help, but his throat and tongue wouldn't obey.

The third shock came as a surprise, for he didn't hear Oliver call the countdown. It overwhelmed his senses, and then he blinked, finding himself looking in a different direction now, with no memory of moving his head. When he drew in breath, he choked on something, and realized there was some kind of foam residue around his mouth.

Oliver was there again, looking a little less sure of himself. He pointed a light – hadn't he done that before? Twister couldn't remember – and said something to him that only came out as muffled, distorted sound. Twister looked away, feeling sick, and closed his eyes, desperate to stop the spinning. Maybe he'd fallen off his skateboard, and hit his head. That's what it felt like, the last time he'd hurt himself.

A bolt of agony ripped him suddenly out of his thoughts, and he felt his eyes roll right back, just before the world was cut off. Next, he saw the world from a new position. His hearing returned, and he could hear people shouting – a violent argument. He saw his own arms, lying limply in front of him, and tried to make sense of the strange, bloody red marks around them. Maybe he'd fallen off his skateboard, and hurt them somehow. But where were his wrist guards?

Some object went flying past his line of sight, towards a cowering student. Wasn't that one of Oliver's friends? They all seemed to be leaving. He wondered why, until another familiar figure appeared: Sam! He fought to call out, to ask the Squid what was happening, but then saw that Sam looked scared and furious, and was wielding his hockey stick like a weapon, and throwing more objects at the retreating students.

He blinked, and Sam was suddenly close to him, pressing his fingers into Twister's neck. His lips moved, but Twister couldn't understand for a moment – until Sam began ripping away wires frantically.

"-with me, Twister. Stay with me, okay?" Sam's voice was oddly hoarse, as if he were crying. "You're gonna be alright, dude, but I need you to try to breathe _slowly_."

"S-Sammy?" Twister rasped, confused by how awful he sounded.

"Twist. Don't try to speak. You need to just breathe."

"Sammy, did you find him? Where... god. Oh, my god. Twister?!"

"Reg, need you to talk to him. Keep him focused on taking slow breaths. He's confused, but that's normal after a seizure. Let me know right away if he seems to be moving unnaturally, or stops responding."

Reggie ran from the doorway to the table, abandoning her gear en route. Twister stared up at her through glazed-over, heavily-lidded eyes, and while Sam dashed around, trying to free his friend from the equipment, Reggie leaned in over Twister, reaching out and resting her hand against the side of his face.

"Twister?" she called. "Twist, it's me, Reggie. Sam says you need to try to breathe more slowly. Can you do that for me? Watch me."

She demonstrated for him, exaggerating her motions and breath. At first, Twister didn't follow along, and kept hyperventilating. She repeated her instructions, over and over, until it occurred to him to try them himself. While he battled to slow his breathing, Reggie glanced at Sam.

"Did you call 911?" she asked.

"They'll be here in ten minutes," Sam confirmed, ripping the last wires off his friend's body, and removing his glasses to quickly wipe away tears. "And after they get here, I'm going to kill Oliver."

"Let's stay focused on Twist for now," Reggie said, grimacing.

Now that they had unhooked him from Oliver's machines, they could both focus on Twister. They clung to him, speaking in soothing tones, and guiding him along, until his breathing became more even. His eyes were still open, and he seemed a little more focused – enough to know the pains all over his body again. Reggie wiped fresh tears away from his face, and in spite of everything, she fixed a smile for him, as reassurance.

Sam began checking Twister from head to toe, prying his chest, arms and legs. When Twister gave a weak moan on contact with his chest, Sam carefully lifted his shirt, and hissed, spotting the electrical-contact burns all over him.

"I'll kill him," Sam said flatly. "I'm going to tie him to a hockey goal, and shoot pucks at him until he dies. I'm going to wring his neck. I'm going to hook him up to some stupid machine and electrocute _him_, see how much he likes it-"

"Sammy, stop," Reggie said firmly. "You're scaring him."

She nodded to Twister, and Sam saw she was right. Still not entirely there, Twister heard Sam's threats, and it was clear as day that he thought Sam was threatening him.

"D-don't wanna d-d-do it 'gain," Twister slurred. "P... please, Oliver..."

"Shh, Oliver's not here anymore," Reggie whispered. "He's gone. It's just me and Sam now, and we're not going to hurt you, okay? It's alright, Twister. It's okay."

"Reg, this is gonna sound gross, but can you tell if he threw up at all?" Sam said, as he began hunting for supplies in the lab medical kit.

"...yeah," Reggie confirmed, spotting the mess on the floor. "And he, um... I think he might have lost control..."

"Huh?"

Reggie rubbed the bridge of her nose. "He peed, Sammy. Did you really have to make me say it? And... is that normal, do you know?"

"Unfortunately, yes. It's not his fault, though, it just happens sometimes, especially with the amount of stress his body's just been through. Have I mentioned yet that I'm going to ki- to do something to Oliver?"

"I'll be right behind you on that."


	21. Chapter 20

Otto raced as fast as his feet would carry him, leaping over furniture and avoiding several near-disasters as he made his way to the closet. Sam and Reggie hurriedly beckoned to him, and he crashed into them, cramming them to the back and shutting the door behind him.

"_OW_, Otto!" Reggie hissed.

"Shh! They're almost here."

"I still think this is a really bad idea, you guys," Sam said uneasily.

"You still came along," Otto countered. "This is gonna be so great!"

"Twister's gonna kill you, dude. And what if we see, y'know... stuff we're not supposed to see?"

"If they start going at it in his living room, his parents will kill _him_," Reggie muttered. "So will I, for that matter."

"Shh!"

They fell silent, just as the door to the Rodriguez house opened. In entered one of the subjects of their hushed discussion: Sofia Tyra. She was frequently ranked one of the hottest girls in Ocean Shores, and never hesitated to play it up – particularly now that she was Twister's girlfriend. Today, she wore one of her signature mini-skirts and a tight-fitting top that displayed her slim belly.

"Ugh," Reggie muttered.

She was elbowed by Sam and Otto both, who looked on with a little too much eagerness. They didn't get much of a chance to ogle at her, because she'd moved aside to let Twister enter. In the fleeting moment before he did, they all saw a scowl cross her face, as Twister reached for her. She pulled out of his reach, then plastered on a quick, coy smile.

"Where's my makeup bag?" she asked.

"Right here," Twister held up the bag and shook it, and she quickly snatched it from him.

"Don't shake it, moron!"

"Sorry."

"Sorry what?"

"Sorry, baby."

"Talk about whipped," Otto whispered, only to receive the next array of silencing elbows.

Sofia strutted across the room and set herself down on the sofa, and carelessly tossed the bag onto the table, before pulling out a mirror and toying with her hair. Twister shut and locked the door, then huffed and hurriedly pulled off his blue tank top, relieved to be out of the summer heat. Sofia watched him and scowled again.

"Maurice, _no one_ wants to see your ugly chest."

"It's hot," Twister muttered.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"It's hot! I can barely breathe in this shit."

"Don't be such a baby," Sofia dismissed. "Come sit down with me."

When Twister turned around, the trio almost gave themselves away with gasps, their eyes widening as they saw their friend's chest. There were a number of inflamed scratches on him, and their origin was far too obvious: fingernail marks. There were countless varieties of bruises, too, and what looked like a couple of burns.

"Holy shit, they get _wild!_" Otto hissed. "Oh, Twister, you _freak_."

Moodily, Twister stalked over to the sofa, stepping over Sofia's legs to reach the other side. She lifted her legs as he did, causing him to stumble, and she let out a cackle as he fell into the coffee table, hard. Twister picked himself up, but didn't share Sofia's mirth, and in fact looked ashamed, as he sat down a distance from her.

"Oh, come on, Maurice! You know I was only playing."

"That hurt," Twister told her flatly, inspecting his bruised wrist.

"You know, you really do bitch, don't you? I told you I was sorry."

"No, you didn't."

Sofia didn't respond, going still for a moment, as she looked directly at him. There was a nearly-predatory look in her eyes, as she set her mirror down, and began sauntering across the sofa towards him. He didn't acknowledge her, instead reaching for the TV remote. She lunged, pushing it out of his reach, and getting right up in his face. Despite being so close, he didn't meet her eyes, and pulled back a little. She just closed the distance again, and before he could react, she grabbed him and kissed him forcefully.

He immediately turned his head away, and pushed her off angrily. She only fell back on the soft surface of the sofa, but she gave him a look like he'd just thrown her – or perhaps tripped her – into the table. The trio went rigid as she lunged again, and with savage violence, lashed out at Twister, and backhanded him across the face.

"_Fuck_ you!" she snarled, as he gripped his cheek. "You never give me anything! What happened to you?! You used to be _good_ at this, but now every time I want some action, you pull away from me!"

Twister remained silent, and the shocked trio saw he was breathing hard. In that moment, just for a split second, he looked _scared_ of Sofia. Indeed, when she mockingly drew her hand back for another hit, he flinched, causing her to break out laughing again.

"Oh my god. Not only are you worthless and stupid – you're a coward, too! This is amazing. I can't believe I put up with you."

"Then don't."

Twister's comeback had been calm; quiet. Sofia's reaction made it seem like he had screamed it at her. She started hitting him again, and this time, he lifted his arms to protect himself, for she was not holding back. She aimed to hurt him, and only after a flurry of swings, did Twister stand, trying to walk away from her. She grabbed his arm – hard – and dug her nails in, tugging so firmly she drew blood. Twister winced, but kept pulling away.

"Don't you fucking turn your back on me, Maurice!" she growled at him. "If you don't stop, right now, I'm going to get you into that fucking bathtub again."

Twister stopped cold, and turned utterly white. Sofia grinned triumphantly, and slowly came up from behind him, stopping at his side. She hung off his shoulder, and reached out to start petting back his hair. He still leaned away from her, but visibly fought the urge to fight back. When she reached down and began running her hand over the front of his pants, he shut his eyes and shuddered.

Her scowl came back, and she grabbed at his crotch with open brutality. He cried out, unable to stop himself from dropping to his knees, his hands pushing her away out of instinct. The moment he was on the floor, she grabbed his hair, gripping tight, shifted her weight, and _slammed_ his head against the wall. He went all the way down now, stunned by the blow, but she gave him no time to recover. She pushed him onto his back, climbed on top of him, and began undoing his pants, while he struggled for consciousness, bleeding from a fresh gash on his temple.

"I'm going to get this, one way or another," she told him, her voice partially seductive, and partially hateful. "And if you fight back one more time, you're going straight to that tub. I will stick your head under that water until you fucking drown, you piece of shit! And if you live? You're not going to eat for a _month_."

A wall-shaking thud resounded throughout the house, and the door of the closet flew open at that moment. Sofia screamed, toppling off of Twister, and when she sat up again to register where the sudden noise had come from, she suddenly found herself tackled.

Reggie was blind in her anger. She didn't pause for thought of consequence, or reaction, as she wrapped her arm around Sofia's neck in a powerful headlock. She paid no heed to Sofia's flailing and breathless choking, and clung on like a serpent, with only one goal in mind: Let go when all becomes still.

"Reg. Reggie! REGGIE! Reggie, stop, you're gonna kill her!"

Otto rushed to his sister, and had to use all his strength to pull her off of Sofia. She fought as he pulled her back, attempting to kick the violently-coughing, wheezing Sofia, but once Otto had her clear, she regained some of her sensibility. The rage, however, remained. She clenched her fists, baring her teeth so hard that Otto was afraid she might break them.

Behind them, Sam had gone to Twister's side, and was carefully checking his friend's pulse and breathing, because Twister hadn't reacted much to the commotion, still lying flat. His head moved from side to side, until Sam stilled him, and his responses were limited to weak mumbling.

"He's got a concussion," Sam reported.

"I will _kill_ you!" Reggie shrieked at Sofia, who began crawling on her hands and knees for the door. "Do you hear me, you bitch?! Don't you ever touch him, or even look at him, again!"

Despite the need to hold his sister back, Otto was in a similar mood. Both siblings looked murderous, and once Sofia got a glimpse of their faces, she scrambled to her feet, losing a shoe as she went. She staggered back into the wall, face and throat red, and mascara running down her face from her struggle to get air.

"I'm going to the police!" she croaked hoarsely. "I'll tell everyone he fucking choked me. And I'll tell them it's because I discovered him sleeping with _you_, you crazy slut!"

Reggie very nearly went at her again, but Otto stood in her way, still facing Sofia. "Get out of here!" he growled. "Go ahead and tell them. But I wonder who they'll believe, when they see the things you've done to him. He has witnesses, and what do you have, you scummy whore?"

Sofia hissed at him, resembling a cat, then took one last look at Twister. The glee in her eyes, at seeing him still lying there, injured, didn't escape the Rockets, but she didn't go after him. Snatching her makeup bag and shoe up, she stalked out of the house, slamming the door behind her.

Reggie moved the second she was gone. Otto almost grabbed at her again, thinking she was going to pursue the girl all the way to the sea and beyond, but Reggie instead went straight for the phone, dialed for Officer Shirley, and waited to make a report.

A report for domestic violence, Otto thought weakly, as he made his way to Twister's side.

"How's he doing, Squid?"

"I think he'll be okay, for the most part," Sam said quietly, as he constantly kept an eye on Twister's vitals. "He hit his head pretty hard, and he's in and out of consciousness, but I'm not seeing anything that would indicate brain damage... not that that really means much, with him," he teased halfheartedly.

Otto managed only the slightest of smiles, and lost it just as quickly, as he eyed his best friend. This close to Twister, he could truly see the extent of the damage on his torso, and he regretted his remarks about the injuries being from intimacy. All of these, he realized, were marks of severe abuse – abuse that Twister had been suffering for god knew how long now. He and the others thought Twister had stopped surfing with them in the summer because of Sofia's requests, but now... now, Otto was certain that he'd done so to hide these marks.

Twister stirred then, interrupting Otto's musings. Sam immediately reached out to keep him still, and Otto leaned in over him worriedly.

"Twister? Buddy, you with us?"

Twister's eyelids fluttered open, revealing a heavily unfocused gaze. He frowned up at them, trying to process what he was seeing. "Ottoman?" he mumbled weakly.

"Hey, bro. Quit moving around, alright? We're gonna get you some help real soon. Reg is on the phone with the police."

"Police?"

Sam grimaced. "Sofia hurt you pretty bad, Twist."

"Sofia..." Twister looked afraid as he uttered the name. "Sammy... don't tell... don't tell my mom. Don't tell her, okay?"

"Well, I think she's going to end up hearing about this anyway, but I won't tell her, if that's what you want."

Twister closed his eyes again, and the boys exchanged troubled looks, as tears leaked from behind his eyelids. "You can't tell her," he whispered. "She'll be so sad... she so was _happy _when she met Sofia. But I don't want her sad. She doesn't know about the tub."

Otto swallowed, recalling the hints and threats Sofia had made. "What is the tub about, buddy? What did she do to you?"

For a long time, Twister didn't reply, and the only sound was Reggie speaking into the phone. Twister's tears didn't stop, and his expression distorted into agony abruptly, as memory gripped him and held tightly.

"She raped me," he whimpered. "I had to let her, because if I didn't... she'd fill up the tub, and tie me up, and put my head under the water... but I d... didn't want it... she said was going to kill Mama if I didn't..."

"Easy, Twist," Sam soothed, though his voice shook. "Take it easy. Sofia's gone now. She's never going to hurt you again, okay?"

"Squid?"

"Yeah, what's up?"

"I'm really tired."

"I know. I'm sorry. But you have to try to stay awake from now on, okay? You've got a concussion."

At that point, evidence of Twister's concussion began to rear its head, as he repeated things he'd said only a few moments ago. Any time he went quiet, Otto and Sam prompted him awake again, much to his ire. Reggie joined them not long after this, sitting on the floor beside Twister, and wrapping her arms around her knees worriedly.

Sirens, at first faint and distant, soon grew to a near-deafening volume, and lights flashed through the windows. Otto got up quickly to open the door, and was faced with Officer Shirley and her partner, as well as a pair of EMT operators.

"Hey, kiddo," Shirley greeted, with a sad sigh. "Got a call here from Reggie. Can we come in?"

"In the living room," Otto reported meekly, as he stepped aside to let them in.

The medics went directly for Twister, but the two cops hung back. Otto and Sam began answering questions directed by Shirley's partner, while Shirley pulled Reggie aside in the kitchen, to speak privately with her.

In the middle of questioning, Otto picked up the sound of a series of shouts outside. He had barely moved to look before he saw Raymundo and Noelani racing up the front walkway to the Rodriguez house. Ray's eyes widened as he spotted Otto, and they both broke into a run. Otto submitted to a fierce hug from each of them, and Sam ended up getting swept up by Noelani, as well.

"Are you guys alright?" Ray asked them, setting a hand on Otto's shoulder. "What's going on?"

"It's Twister, dad," Otto told him quietly. "We came in here to sort of sneak up on him and Sofia, just for fun, you know? But when they came in, she... she was..."

He couldn't finish the sentence. His throat closed at the memory, of the way Twister had shrunk from her, and the way she'd just continuously berated him and put him down. The way she'd grabbed his hair, and the way she'd climbed on top of him... it was becoming too much. He was grateful for his goggles, because they allowed him to blink away his tears before anyone could see.

Sam, though just as stricken as the others, picked up where Otto could not. "We discovered that Sofia has been abusing Twister. Badly," he stated, using as much rationality as he could to distance himself from the subject. "She slammed his head into the wall, and was going to... undress him... before Reggie, um, intervened, with full prejudice."

Ray and Noelani went very quiet indeed, exchanging solemn looks. Then, they began moving towards the living room together, alarmed by the commotion going on there. They stopped when they saw the EMTs hovering around Twister, and applying a bandage to his head.

"Twister?" Ray blurted, moving automatically, before Noelani gripped his hand and held tightly. He looked back at Otto and Sam, and they were shaken to the core by the terrible, anguished look on his face. "Where's Reggie?"

"She's in the kitchen with Shirley," the cop told him calmly.

Ray was gone before the man had finished speaking, while Noelani backtracked, and stood close to Otto and Sam, lending unspoken comfort to the boys, even if neither of them would admit to their distress.

In the kitchen, Ray found Shirley with Reggie, sitting at the table. Reggie was speaking in low, quiet tones, while Shirley listened intently, her face stuck in a grimace. She saw Ray approach, and gave him a cautionary look.

"I know it wasn't the best way to react," Reggie continued, "But she was going to _rape_ him. And now... now she's out there somewhere, and I'm scared she's going to try to turn this on him, and make it look like he's the one who hurt her!"

"Sweetie, you did the right thing. Maybe you reacted a little aggressively, but it was in the interest of defending Twister from serious harm, and that won't net you or Twister an arrest. I understand that you're worried, but we're going to sort this out, okay?"

"Okay..."

"You wait right here, now. I need to go talk with my partner," Shirley rose and reached out, giving Reggie's shoulder a squeeze, before she left the kitchen, nodding to Ray as she passed.

Ray approached carefully, shaken by what he'd discovered in so short a time. "Princess?" he called gently.

Reggie startled a little, staring at him in shock. Ray moved to take Shirley's place, and reached across the table, taking her hands in his own. They didn't speak, for Ray could feel the trembling through her hands, and knew she was trying to keep composure. Only when the shaking stopped, did he feel it was safe to attempt a talk.

"What's this I hear about you intervening on Twister's behalf?" he asked, smiling a little.

Reggie couldn't smile back. "I wanted to kill her, dad," she said in a whisper. "She... she hurt him so badly, and was so mean to him... a-and all I could think about was how I'd react if I saw someone doing that to Otto, and I just... I couldn't stop myself."

"But you stopped her," Ray said firmly, tightening his hold. "My brave little girl."

"I don't feel brave. Just stupid. I wish I'd stepped out earlier, when we first noticed something was wrong... before Twister got hurt."

"Reg, if what I saw out there is anything to go by, she's already been hurting him for a long time," Ray said, his voice strained. "That doesn't mean you failed him in any way, or that you're a bad person for becoming angry. The only one to blame here is Sofia. Do you hear me? It's Sofia's sin to bear, Rocket Girl, not yours."


	22. Chapter 21

"Okay. I've got invites for the guys," Reggie said, balancing papers and cards in her arms. "Then there's Trent's... somewhere here. Who else?"

Sherry and Trish shared a look. "So, about that, Reg..." Trish began uneasily.

Reggie caught their tone, raising her eyebrow. "What's wrong with inviting Trent?"

"Not him. The guys," Sherry said. "Actually, your brother and Sam are fine-"

"-said the girl with a _major_ crush on Sam."

Sherry turned maroon. "Dammit, girlfriend, trying to make a point here."

"Sorry. Continue."

"Anyway. Otto and Sam, cool. Twister? Not cool. I _really_ don't want him at this party."

Reggie almost dropped everything she was carrying, as she stopped and stared at her friends. "You're joking, right?" she asked, and at the same time, she saw that there was no mirth or trick in their eyes. "You're serious."

"It's nothing against him!" Sherry added hurriedly, "Well... okay, so it is a _little_ against him... it's just that he's kind of, um... not suitable for this kind of party, you know?"

"No," Reggie said, setting down the papers rather harshly, "No, I don't know. What do you have against him? Remembering here that he's _my_ friend."

Trish sighed. "Tell her, Sherry. And remember, I want no part in this."

"Look. Not gonna lie, this is going to be a _close_ environment," Sherry said, "And I don't think he should be there. What if he, like... starts trying to grope people?"

Reggie stared. "Why would he do that?"

"Because he's bisexual... isn't he? Or was it pansexual? Either way, he swings both ways, and I don't need this to turn into some kind of sex god party-"

"I can't believe I'm hearing this," Reggie muttered, rubbing the bridge of her nose. "Sherry, just because he's bisexual, doesn't mean he automatically wants to sleep with everyone he sees. Do you want to sleep with _every_ guy you see, just because you're straight?"

"I can think of a couple ways for her to answer that," Trish chuckled.

"I thought you weren't getting involved," Sherry shot back, unamused. "Besides, it's not the same. There will be straight dudes attending. I don't want him making people uncomfortable."

"Then you might as well not invite any girls, because it _is_ the same," Reggie countered hotly. "Twister isn't going to hit on anyone unless he's interested in them, and if they're not interested, he'll move on, just like everybody else does."

"I don't know, Reg. Are you sure? The way he looks at some guys-"

"Is completely normal. I don't rag on you for ogling at guys."

"Yeah, because I'm a girl, and that's normal, and not queer!"

Sherry's outburst was followed with a tense silence. Reggie lost all patience, her features dropping to a scowl, and in response, Sherry grew more and more defensive. Trish looked between them, back and forth, before she rolled her eyes.

"Just invite him, Sherry."

"No."

"Then he'll be my plus-one," Reggie snapped, folding her arms.

"No! I don't want him there! God, Reggie, why are you making this so difficult?!"

"_I'm_ not the one being difficult!"

"Will you two chill, please?" Trish interrupted. "Sherry, think with me for a minute, okay? Just bear with me. You know that Twister is bisexual, right?"

"Yeah..."

"And he hangs out with Otto and Sam."

"Okay?"

"Have you ever seen him try to flirt with either of them?"

Sherry blinked. "...no. But maybe he's attracted to them and doesn't want to admit it."

"Girl, no. Come on. It's like you with your guy friends. You hang out with Eddie sometimes – are you attracted to him?"

"Um, _ew_, Patricia!"

"Exactly. That would probably be Twister's reaction to Otto and Sam."

Finally – _finally_ – the light settled behind Sherry's eyes. Reggie watched the exchange in silence, her arms still sternly folded, but when Sherry began to catch up, she lost some of the urge to strangle her friend. In truth, this wasn't the first time she'd had to defend Twister from this kind of argument, and she was getting tired of it. Still, she'd been surprised that Sherry, of all people, had reacted like this, especially after knowing Twister for so long.

Trish eyed her, recognizing her ongoing frustration. "Invite him, Sherry."

"Okay. Alright! Fine," Sherry conceded, with an exaggerated sigh. "But I swear, if he starts flirting with too many people-"

"Sherry."

"I'm going for a walk," Reggie said flatly.

Neither of them stopped her as she stalked out of Trish's place. They knew she'd return, once she cooled down, but for the moment, she needed to still her anger, and the hurt that followed with it.

She thought about Twister as she walked. For all his faults in the intellectual department, he had become one of the sweetest and most caring people she knew. He'd come out of the closet not long after Noelani and Ray had gotten married, and he remained open about his sexuality, even through the turmoils of high school.

He'd been bullied enough times for it, and that was where most of Reggie's hurt came from: she hated seeing people attack him, and hated the way it seemed to damage his spirit. Too many times now, she'd opened the door to her house, and found him on her doorstep, crying or injured from encounters with those who were less tolerant of him.

Hell, even his own family hadn't taken it well, though his mother took it better than his father did, and Lars remained outwardly indifferent. Reggie seethed, remembering how Twister arrived at school, the day after coming out, with bruises on his arms and face. He'd never outright told her that his father had hit him, but the strain in the relationship between Twister and his parents was far too clear, and the moment he turned sixteen, he was cast out of his house.

Tito had been a saving grace there, and Reggie smiled this time, recalling the bittersweet day he had so graciously offered a distraught and terrified Twister a place in his home – provided, of course, that Twister help him around the Shack from time to time. Sometimes, it seemed like Tito regretted the decision, but after a few changes in habit and some stern talks, Twister was less inclined to make a mess of his room or generally drive Tito up the wall.

Reggie was in the middle of a fond recollection, of listening to the two of them playfully argue over chores, when she very nearly ran smack into a familiar face.

"Regina!" Trent said, steadying her as she wheeled back. "Where's the fire?"

"Trent! Hi. Sorry," Reggie mumbled, blushing. "I didn't see you. Guess I was just lost in thought..."

"Ah. Back at home, we call that 'internalizing a really complicated situation in your head,'" Trent remarked, smirking. "Party troubles?"

Reggie rolled her eyes. "Like you wouldn't believe. I just had to convince Sherry that inviting Twister wasn't going to turn her birthday bash into a BDSM scene."

Trent frowned. "She's inviting him?"

"Yes," Reggie said, a little reproachfully. "She was under the impression that he just flirts with whoever on account of his sexuality."

"Yeah, I hear that a lot from some of the guys," Trent muttered. "It's not exactly true, though, is it? Knew a couple of fellas back home who were gay. I gotta be honest, it was _super_ uncomfortable when they flirted with me, but it's not like they were chasing every swinging dick out there. All I did was say I wasn't gay, and they were cool with it," he paused, noticing Reggie's defensiveness. "I can't speak for the other boys, but you won't see me pushing him out."

Reggie tilted her head, a little put-off by his direct honesty, but realized his willingness overpowered his discomfort. "I just want him to be included," she sighed. "He gets left out often enough as it is... and I didn't think Sherry was one of the people willing to do that to him."

"Hey, you said she agreed to invite him, right? It'll be fine. Besides, I hear he's pretty fun to have at parties."

Reggie couldn't help giving a chuckle. "It helps that he actually _knows_ how to sing."

They began to walk together, their pace more casual than Reggie's war march had been before she ran into him. In their reminiscence, she found herself cooling off, thinking less about Twister's troubles, and more about the ways he'd managed to thrive. He'd always been an excellent videographer for the crew, but once high school hit, he'd branched out into other areas, as well – namely, art and music. He'd long ago switched from standard choir to music with more Latino roots, and had once crashed a particularly boring party to sing Enrique Iglesias and Luis Fonsi covers – a move that saved the entire affair and left him grinning for days.

"That's one of those stereotypical things, isn't it?" Trent remarked. "All the gay guys know how to sing or party. _And_ he drinks the girly drinks – which, before you jump down my throat, are definitely _not_ for the faint of heart. I dunno how the hell he does it; I only had _two_ of those things and was completely pissed off my arse afterward!"

"Nice save," Reggie laughed. "Maybe I should have used that argument with Sherry. She hates beer with a passion. So do I, for that matter."

"Queers Without Beers," Trent said absently.

Reggie sighed. "I hate that word."

"I dunno, Twister seems fine with it. He uses it to describe himself half the time."

"He's allowed to, though. And I guess it depends on context... I just hear people call him that in a mean way so often... alongside that other slur."

Trent winced. "Yeah, that's not cool. Honestly, I've sort of given up telling me mates off for using it. You can bet your arse they'd cool it real quick if it was 'nigger' they were trying to get away with saying, but they don't react the same when they drop 'faggot.'"

Reggie's eyes went a little wide at Trent's continuing casual manner, but she recognized it as an ingrained response.

…

Twister was given no time to react, as he was pushed forcefully against the wall and pinned there. On his next intake of breath, someone's lips met his own, and his eyes widened, before he pushed the abrupt kiss away, staring. To his shock, one of the school's football players was staring right back, seemingly almost as startled as Twister was. In the next second, the guy's friends all cheered and laughed, and he began giggling, wiping his mouth hurriedly.

"What the fuck was that for, dude?" Twister demanded, recovering, while party-goers around them stopped dancing to stare.

"I just made twenty bucks!" the football player crowed. "Kiss the fag for a twenty! Did you enjoy it, queer boy?"

"Fuck off," Twister spat.

A chorus of 'oohs' went up, and the football player lost his silly grin. He approached Twister again, coming far too close for comfort, while Twister watched him defiantly.

"Anyone got a fifty?" the football player asked his friends. "Fifty to touch the faggot and see if he's hard."

"Got you covered, Ricky!"

Ricky leered at Twister. "You know, I could raise it to a Benjamin if you bent over and put your pants down."

"Oh, I get it," Twister said flatly. "You're a whore, right?"

In response, Ricky lunged at him drunkenly, trying to pin him to the wall again. Twister shoved at him once more, harder this time, but Ricky used his muscle bulk to his advantage, and slammed into Twister, using one hand to grip his hair, and the other to forcefully grope him, so hard that Twister cried out in pain. Ricky silenced him with another kiss, and in response, Twister turned his head and lashed out as hard as he could, to no avail.

The football players all erupted into hooting and howling, which further disrupted the party. Across the room, Reggie, standing with Trent near the stairs, climbed up the sides to see what was going on. When she spotted Twister fighting back against a hold that he clearly didn't want to be in, she leaped down, to begin shoving her way through the throng of people. Trent followed, confused, and at the same moment, Sherry and Trish also spied the source of the interruption, and came in from a different direction.

"Hey!" Reggie called, almost snarling, as she elbowed her way into the vacant space around Ricky and Twister. "HEY! Get off of him!"

Puzzled by the interruption, Ricky stopped trying to kiss Twister, but didn't let go of the boy's groin, as he turned his head to see who had called. He cackled when he saw Reggie drawing near, too drunk to read the fury in her features.

"I got the faggot's cock!" he cheered to her, lewdly massaging his victim. "He's hard as a rock! You want some, baby? Twister twists both ways."

Reggie clenched a fist and pulled back for a punch. Before she could deliver it, however, Twister took advantage of Ricky's distraction, and grasped both of Ricky's ears, before ripping at them with all his might. Ricky screeched, releasing Twister, and several of the football players moved in, attacking Twister with punches and kicks.

Just as screams began to rise in the crowd, an ear-piercing, shrill whistle filled the room, and the football players stopped, while the onlookers went still. Only Twister still moved, backing away frantically, and breathing hard, with blood spilling from a fresh cut on his lip. All eyes turned to the whistler, and they saw Trish, scowling at everyone present.

"Time to go, gentlemen," she said to the football players.

They began to grumble and yell protests, but Trish held up her hand in response, and they obediently fell silent again.

"You're wasted," Trish went on. "You know the rules: You start a fight, and you're gone. Nobody wants cops here, and I sure as shit don't want you assholes spoiling my best friend's birthday party. So scram."

There was no more protest, and Reggie marveled at Trish's apparent control over the throng of drunk football players. They shuffled as one towards the door, and people cleared a path for them. Only Ricky held his place, seemingly conflicted. Before Trish could turn her watchful eye on him, he turned to Twister, and spat at him, hitting him in the face.

Reggie moved a second time, only to be restrained by Trent. "Let it go, Reg," he said urgently, as Ricky retreated with his friends. "Don't want you kicked out, too."

"You go with him!"

Reggie and Trent both looked around in surprise, thinking, for a moment, that Reggie really was being cast out of the party. It hadn't been Trish who had spoken, however; instead, Sherry was pointing an accusatory finger at Twister, who was trying to wipe saliva off his face. Twister glowered at her balefully, which only served to increase her anger.

"I knew inviting him was a bad idea!" Sherry went on, clearly a little inebriated herself. "You all _saw_ him! Kissing on that idiot, and letting himself get touched-"

"Hey!" Reggie snapped back, "He didn't ask for some frat moron to _sexually assault_ him, Sherry!"

"He probably gets turned on by it. I _heard_ Ricky say he was hard! It's disgusting, and I want him OUT!"

"Hey, news flash," Twister broke in, his voice quavering – with anger or distress, Reggie couldn't tell. "Ricky lied."

"I DON'T want to hear about your fucking dick, Maurice!" Sherry screamed back. "Get the fuck out of my house!"

"Fine!" Twister growled, turning to leave. "_Puta_."

"No, Twister, stay here," Reggie said firmly, walking up to Sherry. "It wasn't his fault," she told her friend. "If a girl had been assaulted like that, you wouldn't kick them out."

"It's not the same," Sherry insisted. "He's a freak, Reggie. You need to ditch him, and I need him the hell out of my house."

"Forget it, Reg," Twister called, still walking. "I'm not chilling at a party where I'm not wanted."

Sherry folded her arms in triumph – before squeaking in alarm, as Trish began pulling her away to a side room, a desire for a stern lecture written in her features. Reggie and Trent both watched them go, before turning to the door, in time to see Twister slam the front door behind him on exit.

"Trent, please go find my brother and Sam, and meet us outside," Reggie said quickly. "I'll go talk to Twist."

"Be careful out there," Trent warned. "Those football kooks are probably still around."

Reggie barely nodded, racing for the door, and trusting that Trent would do his own search. The party goers had resumed some of their revelries, though the room was now full of gossip and instant replays of the fight that had just gone down. Reggie ignored the looks she was getting, but found it hard to push through the crowd. She grew more frantic, realizing that the longer she was in here, the less chance she had of catching up to Twister.

After a good minute of this, she finally made it to the front door, and forced her way out into the cool night. And, as it turned out, she didn't need to catch up to Twister.

The football players had caught Twister the minute he'd stepped out, and dragged him into the relative shadow of the hedge, so as not to be noticed by people at the windows inside. In the minute or two since his exit, Twister's pants had been forced down, exposing him, and he was being held up and silenced, while Ricky held him close. Just as Reggie began to process what was happening, Ricky grunted and thrust his hips, and Twister gave a muffled cry of agony through the hands clamped over his mouth.

Reggie didn't see. She didn't feel, or think, or even know, for an indefinite amount of time. All she saw in one instant was her friend being raped, and in the next, she was standing between Twister and a group of fleeing football players, breathing hard, with bloodied and aching knuckles. She felt something running down her cheeks, and she wiped at it with her palm, coming to the slow understanding that she was crying.

She wasn't the only one.

Shaking with surging waves of adrenaline, she wheeled unsteadily in place, her anger draining rapidly, and replacing itself with terror. Twister was on the ground, trying to pull his pants back up, and doing so clumsily, out of distress and shock. He was sobbing, his breathing coming hard and fast, and as he realized Reggie had turned, he covered himself, ashamed.

Reggie understood, and looked away, giving him time. The moment she heard his buckle pull, however, she was by his side, crouching. He shied away from her, trembling from head to toe, and in the faint light, she saw humiliation, pain and fear in his eyes – eyes that couldn't meet hers all the way. Hesitantly, Reggie reached out for him, unable to stop her tears.

In the next moment, he reached back, and she found herself on her knees, holding and rocking him in a tight embrace, while he sobbed and shook against her.

"Reggie?" a frantic call came from the door as it opened abruptly. "Where are you?!"

"Here, Trent," Reggie answered weakly, fighting the break in her voice.

Trent was alert at once, and behind him, Sam and Otto followed, all of them looking alarmed, as they finally spotted Reggie and Twister. They bolted over anxiously, sensing that something had gone terribly amiss. Twister jolted and cried out at their sudden approach, and Reggie shook her head at them in warning, bringing them to a halt.

"What happened?" Trent asked quietly.

"You need to call 911," Reggie answered, before she drew in several deep breaths, trying to will herself to continue. "He... he's..."

"Easy, sis," Otto said slowly, disturbed. "Tell us what happened. We heard about the fight. Did they attack him again?"

"He was raped," Reggie blurted, shutting her eyes and gasping at the final word, as if only just realizing the truth of it. "They just raped him. Trent, please, call 911. He needs help."


	23. Chapter 22

Ray sighed wearily, woken for the third time this long night by a sound he'd rather not have heard. In a move he immediately chided himself for as selfish, he tried to ignore it, hoping that someone else would take up the job this time. When the sound came again, however, he let reality settle over him, and sat up like a zombie, unzipping his sleeping bag.

Tito continued to snore, unfazed by Ray's shuffling in the dark, as he fumbled around for the opening to the tent. Pausing only to grab a jacket and headlamp, and cram his feet clumsily into his boots, he stumbled his way out, blinking away the sleep from his eyes. He immediately saw that the flap to the tent belonging to Sam and Twister was open, and he squinted about, seeking the missing occupant.

Twister hadn't gone far this time – he'd barely made it beyond the campsite, before he'd fallen to the frosty ground. He'd abandoned his night shirt, and now rested on his hands and knees, shivering, before he was violently sick. Ray grimaced, and plodded his way over, removing the jacket he'd just applied, so he could put it around the trembling teen's shoulders. Twister barely noticed him for all his choking, retching and crying, and Ray crouched to support him, as more watery vomit came up.

Ray still wasn't sure what had caused Twister's illness, but he was becoming worried. The kid was already pretty dehydrated from his first bout of nausea, and the second one had been twice as bad as a result. Since nobody else was currently presenting symptoms, Ray held onto the hope that it wasn't contagious. Still, the timing was terrible; they had another two days of biking before they would be anywhere near civilization.

When Twister had stopped being sick, Ray eased him off the ground, escorting him over to the fire pit, where embers still glowed faintly. He could feel the boy's shivering, and he suspected that it had nothing to do with the cold. As he helped Twister sit down, and reached for his forehead, he noticed something that worried him far more than these rounds of hurling did: fresh stains on his boxers, accompanied by an unpleasant smell.

"Oh, Twister..." he groaned in frustration.

"I'm sorry," Twister said hoarsely, ashamed.

Ray gave another long sigh, pushing away his disgust and anger, for the look on the boy's face was pitiful, and made him look like a child, rather than a young man of 18.

"It's okay, buddy," he said, softening his tone, "It's not your fault. You're not feeling good, huh? Do you have another pair?"

Twister nodded weakly, but made no move to get up, gripping Ray's jacket around himself tightly.

"Okay. I'm gonna go get them, and then I'm gonna help you get cleaned up. You just rest here for now."

"Raymundo?" Twister called, as he turned.

"What's up?"

"Can you bring my water?"

Ray nodded, and diverted to grab Twister's canteen, taking care not to wake Sam. He uncapped it as he brought it back to Twister, then hesitated, as an odd smell wafted from inside it. He brought it to his nose, sniffing, and cringed at the odor. Experimentally, he poured some out near the light from the fire, and his eyes widened; the water had a very faint brown tinge.

"Twister, where did you get this water from?" Ray demanded, showing the boy his canteen. "Where did you last fill it?"

"F-from the filter pipe, like y-you guys did," Twister answered.

In a mild panic, Ray doubled back to his tent, to grab his and Tito's canteens. He performed the same check, pouring a little out, and was both relieved and troubled to see that the water was clear. Still doubting, he then bustled for Sam, Reggie and Otto's supply, just to be certain. He ignored semi-conscious, grumpy complaints from all of them, and when he found no other contamination, he gave Twister his own canteen.

"Small sips," he instructed. "Don't drink from yours again, okay?"

"A-am I gonna d-die?" Twister asked, scared by Ray's frenetic reaction to the water.

"No, you're not gonna die. But you are pretty sick, kiddo. Are you sure you didn't fill up anywhere else? Not from that creek we passed?"

Twister shook his head miserably. "Gung-Ho Gopher says never to do that unless you have a filter or tablets, or to boil the water first."

Ray smiled softly at the reference, and rubbed his hand through Twister's hair reassuringly. "Sit tight. I'll get your boxers."

As Ray began digging around in Twister's stuff, Sam finally sat up, thoroughly disrupted. "What's up, Raymundo?" he asked through a yawn, before applying his glasses, and frowning as he saw an empty bag next to him. "Where's Twist? It can't be morning already..."

"He's out here," Ray whispered. "He's pretty sick – something contaminated his water, and I'm not sure what just yet."

Sam frowned. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Just go back to sleep. I'll look after him."

"You sure? I've still got that summer with the EMTs under my belt."

"I know," Ray said, lowering his voice further, and checking to make sure Twister couldn't hear, "He had a little bit of an accident, so I'm gonna try to help him get cleaned up. I don't want to wake Otto and have him make fun of Twister for it, so keep things quiet, at least until we get him some new shorts."

Sam's frown worsened, and his worry showed through. "That sounds bad. Let me know when you're ready."

Ray nodded, and backed out of the tent, with a fresh pair of boxers for Twister. He put on his dad-mode gears then, simply because this next part required it. Easing Twister off the ground, he helped him over to the nearby camping shower that Reggie and Otto had both deemed a necessity. Ray was grateful he'd allowed it now, and after he checked it was full and heated, he set Twister down again, and set the jacket aside, before easing the boy's boxers off, and running the shower.

Twister was lethargic and drowsy throughout this process, and Ray didn't like it one bit. He patiently held Twister up, ignoring his own disgust at the mess on the kid's backside as he hosed him down. He was halfway done when Twister became nauseated again, and vomit and worse came out of him.

"_Fuck_," Ray muttered, fighting to hold him up and keep the water hose clear. He looked back at the camp, and – praying he didn't wake everyone – called out in a stage-whisper, "Sammy! Need your help!"

The tent wobbled as Sam clambered out, but Ray returned his focus to Twister immediately, painfully aware that the way he was slumping down was not good. He peered down, taking Twister's chin in his hand, and his heart almost stopped, as he saw his eyes were closed and fluttering wildly. He tried lightly shaking Twister, with no response.

"No, no, no. Come on, buddy," he said urgently. "You're not out. Come on. Talk to me."

Crunching footsteps and a waving light alerted Ray to the sudden presence of Sam, and he looked back, knowing his eyes betrayed fear. Sam's own expression still had a hint of worry, but he otherwise held his determination and alertness. To Ray's immense relief, he had also hauled out his EMT kit from his backpack.

"Lay him down. Cut the shower," Sam told him shortly.

Ray obeyed without question, or objection to Sam's slightly authoritative tone. "He was conscious a few moments ago," he reported.

Sam didn't reply, hastily ripping open his kit, apply gloves, and moving his friend into a recovery position. He checked Twister's pulse with one hand, and with the other, began tugging more items from the kit. Ray paled at the sight of a packaged needle and tube.

"An IV?" he asked.

"For fluid loss. It'll help bring his system back to normal. You know how to use a sphygmometer?"

"A _what?_"

"Blood pressure cuff."

"Oh. Yeah."

"Put some gloves on, and take his blood pressure. I'm gonna set this up."

While Ray began taking blood pressure, Sam set up a field stand and, with impressive skill, quickly and efficiently hooked Twister up to the IV drip. As the needle went into his arm, Twister woke up – though he wasn't all there, and didn't respond to Sam's prompting. Sam grimaced when Ray read out Twister's blood pressure as low, and mentally ticked another symptom off his checklist. He didn't like any of the options this was being narrowed down to.

"Has he been puking a lot?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. He got up a couple times before this to throw up."

"Any of it look like clear fluid? Like water?"

Ray frowned. "Yeah, every time. Why?"

Sam didn't reply right away; he was in EMT mode, and – with similar methods to Ray's dad-mode – he moved to inspect the remnants of diarrhea on the ground.

"Dammit," he mumbled. "That's not good."

"What's up?"

"I'm not in a position to make a full diagnosis, but if I had to guess, based on all his symptoms... I think he may have cholera."

"Cholera?!"

Ray's shout prompted an angry, half-waking, incoherent response from one of the tents. He didn't care; his heart had started racing madly, and he stared down at Twister, with a million worst-case scenarios racing through his head. What would Sandy and Raoul say, if he came home, minus one teen, and had to explain to them that their son had succumbed to 'The Blue Death'?

"_Don't_ panic," Sam told him firmly, seeing the rising fear. "It's treatable, and while it might not seem like it right now, this looks like a mild case so far. So long as we keep him hydrated, and keep his electrolyte balance intact, he'll recover. By the way, do you know where he picked up the contaminated water?"

"That filter pipe we stopped at," Ray responded, through a dry mouth. "I checked everyone else's water; his is the only one that didn't come out clear."

"That's unusual... I think I'll do a quick test on everyone's supply, once we get him a little more stable. Oh, and I'll need you to check our food supply, and see if we have any dried bananas or anything similar. Once I can get him to stop puking, we need to make sure he keeps eating."

As if the mere mention of food prompted it, the next wave of illness caught Twister in its grip, and Sam got an experience of the hell Ray had gone through not long ago. He kept a patient eye on his sick friend, making sure he didn't choke, and when painful muscle cramps began wracking his body, he and Ray both worked to soothe him.

The sun was beginning to come up by the time they managed to get him to stop. They cleaned the mess off of him as best they could, then, at Sam's suggestion, moved him back to the heat of the fire pit, carrying him on the tent tarp that Ray hurriedly took out of their empty shelter. At Sam's other suggestion, they kept the tarp under him.

"He _will _mess it later, guaranteed, but it's better than him being exposed on the ground," he explained. "We'll just have to work with what we have, and clean him up each time he goes. Nursing is a tough job for a reason. But, look on the bright side-"

"There's a bright side?"

"-I've given him some anti-nausea medicine, so the only thing we have to worry about is diarrhea."

Ray wrinkled his nose. "Great. Isn't there, like... a bucket system we could use?"

"Not until he can sit up on his own. Right now, he needs to rest, and let the IV do its job. I don't want him collapsing, either-"

"That's IT! What in the _hell_ is going on that can't wait until morning?!"

Both Sam and Ray froze, hearing the furious hellfire in that voice. Before Ray could answer, Otto and Reggie's tent opened, and Reggie burst out, her hair askew with bedhead, and her eyes both tired and angry. She spotted them, began stalking towards them to chew them out – then stopped, her eyes going wide, as she spotted Twister. Her face turned crimson, and she did an about-face almost immediately.

"Um...?"

"Morning, Reg," Sam said, unfazed.

"Uh... not to be the one to point out something obvious here, but... why is Twister _naked?_"

"Sorry, Rocket Girl. Can't be helped," Ray said, wincing.

Otto clambered out of the tent after this, blinking in confusion. "What the fuck? Did you just say Twist is naked? Do we have a camera?"

"Well, that doesn't sound weird at all, Otto," Reggie deadpanned.

"You mean you _don't_ want epic comedy material to hang over him later?"

"Easy, guys," Sam told them reproachfully. "He's super sick right now. Also, since you're awake, do NOT drink from your canteens until I've tested them. Don't even wash your hands with any of our supply."

"Wait, there's something wrong with our water?" Otto asked, alarmed. "Please don't tell me we're all gonna be lying naked on a tarp, dude. That's just wrong."

"Hopefully not," Ray said. "So far, it looks like it might just be Twister's supply. But, like Sam said, we're gonna do some checks here soon."

"Is he going to be okay?" Reggie asked, almost turning around, before checking herself. "Do we know what kind of illness he has?"

"He's got all the symptoms of cholera," Sam sighed.

"Cholera?!" Otto and Reggie chorused, with uncanny resemblance to Ray.

"That's really bad," Otto said uneasily, staring past Reggie to where Twister lay, and finding he didn't like how still he was. "People die from that... he's not gonna die, is he?! I don't wanna have to tell people my best bro shit himself to death."

"Wow, little bro! Way to be supportive. No, 'Is he alright' or 'I hope he gets better,'" Reggie snapped.

"But he's gonna _die_, Reg!"

"No, he's not gonna die," Sam countered tiredly, "Not if we treat him. I've got him on a fluid IV, and we're going to do the best we can to help him get better. Which means we're gonna be here awhile while he recovers. And he _will_ recover."

While Sam began explaining the unpleasant intricacies of cholera to the pair, Ray brought his attention back to Twister. He was surprised to see the kid's eyes were open again, and he appeared a little more lucid than earlier, though whether he was able to keep up with the conversation, Ray wasn't sure. Sighing through his nose, Ray reached out to Twister, somewhat impulsively, and stroked back his hair comfortingly.

"Hey, buddy," he greeted, as Twister responded and focused on him. "How're you doing?"

"Don't feel good," Twister slurred, his voice terribly weak. "What's cholera?"

Sam, Otto and Reggie stopped talking, and despite her misgivings, Reggie ignored her own embarrassed protocols, turning anxiously at the sound of Twister's voice.

"It's a disease you get from drinking bad water," Ray explained to Twister.

"Oh. I'm sick?" Twister mulled over this, then seemed to become more aware of himself. "Where're my clothes, man? Reggie's gonna freak..."

"No clothes for you until you stop having accidents on yourself, my dude. And Reggie's already over it. Aren't you, Rocket Girl?"

"Hey, Twist," Reggie called kindly.

"Fuck..." Twister mumbled. "I'm sorry, Reg. Don't... don't look at me too much. I'll go get my pants."

"Oh no you won't," Sam told him sternly, setting a firm hand against his chest as he tried to rise. "You need to _rest_, Twister."

"Don't wanna fucking... lie in my own shit, Squid, that's gross."

"Yeah, well, guess who has to clean you up? Besides, putting pants on will just ruin them."

"...oh. I'm... I'm sorry."

"Hey, don't worry about it, okay? You can't help it. Let us take care of you, and you'll be back on your feet in no time."


	24. Chapter 23

Waking was a slow affair, so much so that Twister thought, for a long time, that he was hungover, and sleeping it off somewhere in Otto's room. Curiously, there was no signature headache to go with it, and he was _warm_. He wasn't sure why that felt like such a wonderful thing – only that he appreciated it immensely.

Coming further out of the haze, he felt that he didn't even have his night clothes on, and something nearby was making an odd crackling noise. Present, too, were very low, hushed whispers, and the occasional shuffling of feet across wooden floor. He sighed deeply, not wanting to open his eyes, but this seemed to prompt the shuffling to increase and come nearer. A few seconds later, he felt sudden movement, and the blankets around his body were pulled up a little further, and tucked more snugly around him.

He drifted again. He was aware he was drifting, and didn't really mind, except the confusion remained. He couldn't be at the Rocket house – that crackling was a fireplace, and they didn't have one of those. In fact, he wasn't sure he knew anyone who had one in Ocean Shores, because there was generally no need. So where was he?

He opened his eyes this time, and suffered the sort of disorientation one gets when one's brain is sure of a position, while the eyes are telling the brain otherwise. He was lying on a sofa, that much was clear, and there was more noise nearby, like the movements of plates and cutlery for meals, along with more of those murmurs. The walls around him were strange – wood logs, laid out in a straight pattern, with the occasional regional decoration. It was almost like a...

A cabin. He frowned, staring through slightly blurry vision at the glow of the fire. He didn't remember coming here. He sifted through his puddled thoughts, trying to figure out what he _did_ remember. Snow came to mind, and he hummed, as he concluded that he must be at Mt. Baldy. That was a hell of a thing, he figured. He didn't think Raymundo would have let them drink up here, yet here he was with a hangover.

His small vocal outburst stilled the noise nearby. He could sense people moving again, but didn't outright see anything, until a very familiar figure came into view. Otto stared down at him with wide eyes, and a smile broke his features, as he ran to his friend's side.

"He's awake!" he cried over his shoulder, a little too loudly for Twister's liking.

The murmurs grew to a jumble of eager chatter, and Otto was joined moments later by Reggie, Sam, Tito and Ray. They clustered, all staring down at him, and he felt a little self-conscious under their scrutiny.

"Twister, can you hear me, little cuz?" Tito asked, leaning in close.

"Hi, Tito," Twister said, before frowning again; his voice had come out little more than a hoarse croak.

"Oh, thank god," Ray breathed, before he reached out and affectionately scratched Twister's head. "We were really worried there for awhile, buddy. How are you feeling?"

"Worried?" Twister repeated. "Why were you worried? I don't... I don't remember. Where am I?"

"You don't remember? He doesn't remember... that's a bad sign-"

"It's normal," Sam interrupted, cutting off Ray's opening volley of worry. "He'll get his memory back, soon enough."

"I lost my memory?" Twister asked. "Guys... where are we? What happened?"

"You're at the cabin now. You got caught in a pretty nasty blizzard," Tito told him gently. "When we found you, you had fallen through the ice at the creek, and you had some serious hypothermia. We got you back here, and you've been snug as a bug ever since."

Twister stared in wonder. "You guys went out in a blizzard? For me?"

"Sort of," Reggie amended. "We all got caught in it, just because it settled so fast. But once we realized you hadn't come back to the cabin yet..." she trailed off, carrying a look of worry that Twister somehow knew they had all been wearing.

"I'm okay, Reg," he reassured, managing a weak smile.

"Technically, you're not out of the woods yet," said Sam. "Hypothermia is serious, and you'll need some serious rest to recover, which means no snowboarding, no skiing, no going out _period_-"

"That's okay. I'm kinda toasty right now. I don't wanna get up."

Otto narrowed his eyes. "Wow. You really _did_ get sick out there. You're gonna miss out, dude! There's only like two days left!"

"Otto, don't rub it in," Reggie snapped.

"Wait... how long have I been here?" Twister asked suddenly.

Everyone else went pretty quiet at this, and he could see them working out who would speak. Eventually, Tito patted his shoulder. "Don't worry about it right now, Twister-cuz."

"How long?" Twister repeated firmly, feeling an unpleasant anxiety rise in his chest.

"It's been two days, dude," Sam said gently.

Twister paled, causing Tito and Ray to cluster in closer and fuss over him. "Holy shit."

"Hey. Being sick doesn't give you a free pass for swearing, young man," Ray cautioned him.

"Sorry, Raymundo. It's just... I-I'm... I'm kinda scared," Twister confessed, looking away.

"It's alright, Twister," Ray rubbed his arm. "We were kinda scared, too, but everything's okay now."


	25. Chapter 24

Before the events that ruined his life, Twister had never known what it was like to not have any friends. Sure, he'd had plenty of moments in his life where he and the others fought, but the situations had always resolved quickly, and strengthened the bond between the Rocket gang in the end. Amends would be made, laughs would be shared, and then they'd hit the waves, or Mad Town.

Things were different this time. After being yelled at, chewed out, sworn at, shunned and even punched, they had ceased contact with him. He couldn't exactly blame them; like everyone else, they found his sin to be too great to remain friends with him.

The trouble was, he hadn't actually done what he was accused of. The memorial for Violet Stimpleton was something he found beautiful, and he'd even contributed to building it. So when he'd woken up one morning on the ground next to it, with a can of spray paint in his hands, he had wept – wept, because the monument was ruined. Even he had thought he'd done it, at first, because in his distress, his memory refused to recall what had happened. When the police had shown up, however, and the accusations began flying, he knew what events had transpired.

He'd seen the two boys in masks; seen them defacing Violet's monument. He remembered being furious, and trying to charge at them, to stop them. His efforts were met with a calm sort of violence, as one of them had turned and simply shocked him with a Taser that Twister hadn't seen. He recalled the pain, and then the humiliation and fear, as the boys forced open his mouth to make him swallow a sedative, that they might better begin covering up their crime.

Shirley and the other officers weren't impressed by this story. There was no assailant, they'd told him: you are lying to try to cover up what you've done. He'd spent the next day and night in jail, shivering on a cold, hard bed, while his cell mates tormented him; as locals, they, too, had been angered to learn of the monument. The beatings had been relatively bearable, but before long, one of them had the disgusting idea to 'deface the criminal' with something much worse than spray paint.

When his brother had finally come to bail him out, his face was covered in human excrement, and he had been reduced to a choking, miserable wreck. No one helped him clean it off his face, and no one punished those responsible. It had been the worst moment of his life, kneeling in the prison shower, while two indifferent cops and his brother watched him cry as he desperately tried to clean himself.

He couldn't eat anything after that; not without wanting to retch and puke, both out of untold levels of revulsion, and out of shame. Lars told him that he shouldn't have defaced the monument if he didn't want that kind of punishment, but eventually, when Twister had refused meals for several days in a row, he attempted to force his younger brother to eat, which only brought forward his terror. He saw Lars, trying to grab him and give him food, and his fracturing sanity interposed memory over present experience, convincing him his own brother was going to force him to eat shit.

Lars left him alone after he'd broken down from that, and he was the only one who didn't outright pursue him about the monument. It was the strangest irony, that the teen who had once relentlessly teased and ragged on Twister and his friends, was now the one who decided to show lenience and mercy.

It definitely wasn't so with his schoolmates. From the minute he walked through the doors of OSHS, he was a target. Most of it was the familiar shunning, but there was plenty of verbal abuse, mocking, teasing, and rumor-mongering. Bolder students would throw things at him in the halls, or spit on him, and the boldest of all frequently chased and beat him.

None of this compared to what his teachers did. For each class he went to, that first day, he was made to stand in front of the room, and apologize to his peers. He verbally refused at first, still somehow managing to stand by his innocence. The response was always the same: a lecture about his worthlessness to the community, and his poor academic performance. He became a demonstration piece, about what _not_ to be, and how _not_ to behave, look, or think. That he refused to apologize, they said, was only a testament to how low he was.

He no longer spoke after that. He simply stood there, with dead eyes, while the lectures rang around in his ears, and the class glared up at him. Sometimes, he wasn't given permission to sit back down, instead getting consigned to a corner, like he was some petulant child in time-out. Sitting or standing, he was the target of more projectiles, and the teachers all turned a blind eye towards it.

The relentless backlash went on all week, in school and out of it. He'd once tried to go down to the beach, to sit in the sand and try to find a moment of peace. When he got there, Tice marched over to him, and ordered him to leave, stating that 'this beach doesn't welcome criminals'. He'd simply turned around again, flatly, his body on autopilot, and when he'd come up the ramp near the Shore Shack, he'd gotten a glimpse of his former friends: talking, laughing together, like nothing was wrong. They stilled when they got a glimpse of him, and even Ray and Tito looked cold and hostile.

The moment he'd received those looks, he'd started down his internal warpath. He was supposed to check in for curfew at home, but he went in the opposite direction, marching for the hills and woods beyond Ocean Shores. He walked like the dead, feeling everything and nothing; he walked until his feet hurt so badly, he could barely move. He walked until the sun had long since set, and his body screamed for water and rest, but he didn't heed any warning.

One of the woodland police patrols had eventually found him, wandering like this, along one of the back roads. He'd tried to keep going, but was restrained, and for the second time in so few days, he was handcuffed and put in the back of a police car. For violating the curfew order, his parents and Officer Shirley had him consigned back to jail for the night. He had no cell mates this time, but even being near the place had made him feel ill.

He'd been lying there, staring at nothing, when he'd seen the shard of metal.

It was one of those things that could only turn up in a small-town jail; the sort of object that got overlooked, because those who had broken the law were often only drunks or petty criminals. Technically, Twister was considered one of their ilk, too – they just hadn't really counted on this particular captive being so broken.

He cut in a way that wouldn't be noticed by the guards, hiding these new, morbidly fascinating wounds on his thighs. The injuries were few, and jagged from the difficulty of the instrument, but they satisfied him in ways he didn't really understand. It was a wild and deep instinct for escape and relief that drove him to it, and the rush he received from hurting himself released some of the immense pressure on his soul.

He was careful to hide the instrument of his pain, and when he was released the next morning, he immediately sought out something easier to harm with. That was how his mother's paring knife had come into his possession; he'd taken it, created a sheath for it with cardboard, and now carried it in his pack, wherever he went. School became a little more bearable, even with the onslaught of hell, for any time he managed to hide away in a bathroom, he cut on himself.

Space on his legs ran out eventually, and when he couldn't bear the agony of cutting over cuts, he switched to his chest and stomach. It was odd to him that he was careful when he did this; why not just plunge the fucking thing all the way in, through his heart? But he was afraid to die, and afraid to live, and being caught between both kept that blade running over his skin.

By the second week, he'd run out of space there, too. No one had given any notice to his injuries, because he'd taken steps to hide them. Now, however, even the constant, dull ache of open wounds on his chest and legs didn't satisfy his desperation, and the day had already been another nightmare. Deciding that no one would actually give a damn, if they even _did_ notice, he sat down one day, and began marking his arms. He gave no thought to consequences, stuck as he was in the trance of cutting.

He was covered in blood when he finally snapped out of the automation, and when he looked down at himself, he cocked his head to the side, as if unsure what he'd wrought. His arms looked like some grotesque version of tiger stripes, bearing bleeding, wide gashes, all the way up and down, on both sides. He blinked, standing up to try to assess where the blood had spattered, and hoping none had gotten on his clothes.

He staggered when he did, taken by a wave of dizziness. Blood loss, he figured with detachment. That, and he still rarely ate, which left his body much weaker than it normally would have been. Recovering his balance, he began methodically wiping away blood from his hands. It was always tedious, this part, because blood does not clean easily, and he went through an entire roll of toilet paper before he stopped. What did it matter, anyway? He put the knife away, sliding it home into its sheath, before stuffing it into the secret compartment he'd created in his pack.

Ignoring the way his new wounds still wept blood, he left the stall, walking with that same, robotic march, on towards his next class.

Whispers and stares followed him when he entered the halls. He blocked them out immediately, as he'd always learned to do when the taunting became too much. He didn't want to hear what they had to say about him; there would be enough torture in class, regardless. He entered the room to English as the bell went, still pursued by gawking students, and his anxiety spiked when he saw that the class was already full.

Eyes turned to him when he entered, and those eyes all went wide with shock. He didn't meet any gaze, instead making a beeline for his seat at the back of the classroom. The teacher, who had been busying herself with her computer at the front, finally noticed a murmur and commotion in her classroom, but Twister had already sat down, slumping in his seat and staring dead ahead.

"Well, it's that time, people," the teacher began. "Shakespeare is on the table for this quarter! I know some of your friends in higher grades have probably told you a few horror stories about Merchant of Venice, so you'll get to share their- _yes_, Regina, I suppose I'll allow your extremely rude interruption! What is it?"

Twister stiffened, realizing the girl who was desperately raising her hand was, in fact, Reggie Rocket. He felt his throat dry up, and the urge to cut again was upon him in an instant.

"Mrs. Devere, I think Maurice needs to go see the nurse," Reggie said, her voice oddly strained.

At the mention of Twister's name, Devere's lips thinned to a line. Then, as her eyes darted towards him, the color drained from her face, and her hand flew up to cover her mouth, as she finally saw what had stirred up her class. Twister didn't move, too far gone in his fears. Every eye was upon him, and he was struck with the same, sick dread that had hit him every time he'd been made to stand up front.

"Maurice," Devere croaked, shocked, "Please... please head to the nurse's office, immediately. Regina, will you escort him?"

Reggie rose from her seat, turning towards Twister at last. He saw something in her expression then – something akin to worry, or fear. It confused him; did she not hate him? He slowly looked back down to his arms, as if seeing his wounds for the first time. He had bled onto the desk a little, he noticed, and he rationalized that the mess was probably what she was worried about.

She approached, and his anxiety spiked once more. He began to stand, uncertain what to make of this contact, and he had it in his mind to retreat from the classroom, immediately. As he made it to his feet, the room gave a terrible lurch, while sound seemed to rush away. Reggie's jaw fell open, and she called out to him, but he could no longer focus, and he surrendered to the sudden absence of muscle control.

He knew what was about to happen, and he half turned, feeling like a pilot seeking an emergency landing zone. He found one, between two desks, and let the floor rush up to greet him, collapsing without grace or balance. For a few seconds, he heard, and distantly saw, many people in the classroom rise in panic, but they faded away, and he knew no more.

…

In the whole of her career here in Ocean Shores, Shirley had never felt as worn out as she did today. It felt like fifty years had just been piled onto her soul, as she paused the playback on the security tape, and turned to look at the junior officer who had handed it to her.

"You're telling me," she said heavily, "That you've had this footage the entire time, and you never reported it?"

The junior officer, shame-faced and grimacing, nodded. "I didn't think it-"

"No, you sure as hell didn't think!" Shirley snapped, shooting right up out of her seat. "Do you have any idea what it is you've been sitting on? Any clue what this is?"

The junior officer dared not answer; he knew. He knew very well, and the scale of his mistake was beginning to set in properly. Shirley gave him a glare that would have earned her a place as a Marine drill sergeant, and held that look for as long as she could. Inside, her stomach was turning, as she remembered the report the jail guards had given her about what had been done to Twister while he was in custody.

"Crawley," Shirley went on, her voice dangerously calm, "You have deprived a suspect of his alibi, and delayed solid evidence of his innocence. And as a result of this, he's been suffering. Do you understand that?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"I don't think you do. So let me spell it out for you, in case you end up sitting on this message, too: Twister Rodriguez is currently in intensive psychiatric care because of backlash from what he was accused of. He is only seventeen years old, and his body is covered in scars caused by his own hand. You almost killed him, Crowley. You. Not the little hooligans who defaced the monument; not the people who believed the accusations – _you_."

"Ma'am, I-"

"Don't you 'ma'am' me!" Shirley yelled. "I do _not_ accept this level of incompetence in my department! You might as well have shot him, by delaying that evidence! So now, you're going to take your things, and you're going to get them the hell out of my department. And when you're done, you're going to bring me your badge, because you are fired."

Crawley looked devastated, but held his tongue once more. Without another word, he turned on his heel, and marched out of the office. Shirley slowly sat back down, turning back to stare at the recording with haunted eyes. The shot was frozen, in a perfect capture from a CCTV camera, and there, in front of the memorial, was Twister, fighting back against the vandalism of Violet Stimpleton's memory.

Shirley reached for the phone.

…

Nobody knew what to make of the scene before them. It was confusing, and sad, and a little frightening, because the way Twister struggled with the nurses was pathetic, and born only of animal instinct. From the other side of the barrier, Ray cast an alarmed look at the doctor.

"What are they doing with him?" he demanded.

Doctor Moore sighed irritably at the sight, and quickly crossed the area, drawing the two nurses away from Twister. Twister, trapped on his bed by restraints, curled up as much as the straps would let him, with silent tears falling down his face, and his breathing coming in sharp gasps, as he glanced all over the place. The hospital food they had been trying to serve him lay scattered across the floor, tray and all, from when he'd swatted it away in a panic.

"He's not eating," one nurse reported.

"He's not eating, or he's not comfortable with you trying to make him eat?" Moore demanded, folding her arms. "Look at his chart, please, both of you, and tell me about the bold, underlined, red-print instructions."

The nurses complied, then looked chastised as they read the details. The Rockets, Sam and Tito watched on, perplexed.

"Well?" said Moore.

"Sorry, doctor."

"Just clean this up, and wait for him to calm down a little. Get him a new tray, and this time, actually try to give him space, instead of forcing him to eat."

Both nurses scurried to their tasks, and Moore withdrew, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she returned to the group.

"What was that about?" Ray asked.

Another sigh – but this one was more sympathetic. "Our standard procedure with patients who won't eat is to try to help them, but he's a special case, hence the need for the note on his chart. To put it bluntly, when he's restrained like that, and surrounded, he thinks they're trying to make him eat excrement, because that's what his cellmates did to him. He's reliving the memory of that trauma."

"Oh, god... that's... oh, god..." Sam mumbled, looking ill.

"That's disgusting," Reggie finished quietly, watching Twister sadly, "And cruel."

"What do you mean, his cellmates?" Ray went on, horrified by this explanation. "Other people on the ward did that to him?!"

"No. This was, I believe, from when he was initially arrested."

"How long has this been going on? Has he had anything to eat recently?"

"He does a little better when he's left alone, but we do have him on an IV for that, as well. It's going to take time and patience before he'll be able to recover from it, and, as I'm sure you know by now, it's only one of many issues."

The group was silent at this. Guilt was the word of the month; unbelievable levels of guilt. When they first heard that Twister had resorted to his brutal levels of self-harm, their first response had been a mixture of vindictive satisfaction, worry, and _guilt_. After Officer Shirley came forward with evidence of Twister's innocence, however, that remorse overwhelmed all else. The realization that their friend had been driven to his current state not just by bullies, but by their indifference, hit them hard, and hurt badly.

There were bandages on the boy's arms now, concealing most of what he'd done. But there was nothing that would make those scars go away, and nothing to cover the break of madness in his eyes, as he lay on that bed, pulling in vain at safety restraints.

…

"Otto Rocket, that better not be a _cigarette_."

Otto froze, the cigarette halfway to his mouth. He considered biting down on it, and pretending it was candy, but the thought was revolting, and he suddenly elected to not care about the murderous look his sister was casting in his direction. Resuming course, he held it between his lips, and lit up, turning away from Sam and Reggie both.

Reggie's mouth hung open a moment... before she lost her indignation. Even Sam, with his allergies and asthma, didn't really have the heart to object, because the truth was, Otto's hard gaze, and his secret smoke break, summarized how they all felt.

"Dad's gonna kill you if he finds out," Reggie muttered halfheartedly, sitting down next to him.

"So don't say anything."

"You better talk a ride around town to air out your clothes afterward. And get some breath mints."

"Fine."

Reggie exchanged a look with Sam, who waited a full distance from Otto. "Well," she sighed, "I-"

"Don't say it. Okay? I just... I don't have anything to say about it."

"Not even to him?"

Otto was silent a moment. "I can't."

"You have to. We all do," Reggie replied quietly. "We owe it to him, Otto."

Otto simply dragged from the cigarette, then made a face, and tossed it away in disgust. "I don't see how this is gonna change anything. We fucked up, and now he's permanently psycho. How the hell is a cutesy little reintroduction gonna be worth anything to him?"

Sam sat down on the other side of Otto. "He called us, dude. I like to think that, in a way, that means he forgives us."

"He's crazy, Sammy. Maybe he didn't even know it was us he called."

"He's _sick_," Reggie amended. "That doesn't mean he can't forgive, or interact. He just needs time to heal, that's all. And you need to remember what his doctor said: We have to be patient with him."

"And if he decides he doesn't want anything to do with us?" Otto stormed, "What then? I don't know about you, but I don't wanna spend the rest of my life here watching him fail to exist because we destroyed him."

…

The trio had to resist the urge to run. It was a powerful impulse, growing with each passing second, and when that little car pulled up in front of the Rodriguez household, they almost gave into it, as the Rodriguez family climbed out.

Sandy and Raoul came out first, both of them wearing tight, tired smiles – the grins of parents who know their child is not well, but are determined to show him their love and support. Lars followed next, and here, there was more honesty: he didn't attempt smiles or cheer. His face was a troubled mask, as if he didn't know what to make of anything.

He waited by the last passenger door, and when it opened, Reggie, Sam and Otto all held their breaths.

They had last seen Twister all those long months ago, tied to a hospital bed, thrashing and crying, without an ounce of sanity left in him. Though the Twister they saw now looked somewhat better, there was still very much a lack of presence in him. His eyes were wild, and he looked around in an unbalanced manner, sometimes grinning morbidly at things, and sometimes staring at nothing at all.

He spotted his old friends then, and froze, those eyes holding a gaze that was somewhere between hostile and delighted. His family, too, noticed the three of them standing there, on the curb, and Sandy and Raoul's smiles faded, while Lars scowled openly.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded. "You have no right-"

"You see them, too, Lars?" Twister interrupted. His voice was soft, and just as unsteady as his demeanor. He studied the other teens, like he wasn't quite sure of what he was seeing. "They're real?"

"Yes, mijo," Sandy told him softly. "They're real."

"You're real," Twister informed them, giving them a broad, disturbing smile. "That means I'm home, I think. Where were you guys?"

"You need to leave, please, right now," Raoul told the teens tersely.

"But, papa!" Twister protested. "They're _real_. They're here! I want them to be here. I don't want them to disappear again."

Sandy and Raoul pulled him aside carefully, speaking to him in soft whispers, while Lars approached the Rocket Gang. Sam, Reggie and Otto – still shocked to their core about just how unstable Twister was – still made no attempt to leave.

"So now you know," Lars hissed at them, his eyes blazing with fury. "Now you know what you did to him."

"He asked us to be here, Lars," Reggie told him, her voice shaking.

"He doesn't know what he asks for most of the time," Lars snapped back. "The whole ride over, he thought we were riding the ski lift. _That's_ how fucked-up his mind is. He doesn't understand."

"We came to welcome him home, and to apologize-"

"You can't apologize to him!" Lars bellowed, startling everyone. "There's nothing in there to apologize to! He's not there! Twister is away, dipshits. He's away."

"Where am I away?" Twister asked, wandering up behind him. "Lars? Are we going on a trip?"

"No," Lars snapped, before shutting his eyes, and checking himself. "No, Twister. We're not going on a trip. Come on, let's go inside. Don't you wanna see the house?"

Twister pulled away from him, blinking, as he looked at his former friends. "Lars? I see people."

"Yeah, bro. Those are the traitors who made you sick. They're real, unfortunately."

But Twister frowned at him. "But those are my friends."

Lars grit his teeth, looking almost tortured with conflict. "Friends don't hurt friends the way they hurt you," he told his brother softly. "Okay? You understand?"

"But _I_ hurt me," Twister insisted, holding out his wrists, where his scars shone under the sunlight. "I did that."

"I... I know. I know you did."

Twister glanced at the trio again, and once more, gave them that strange smile. "You guys look sad."

"We are sad, Twist," Reggie said, her voice only a whisper. "But we're also happy to see you again."

To her alarm, Twister rushed at her suddenly, with frightening speed. His parents gave shouts of warning, and Sam and Otto hopped back in fright, but Reggie didn't have time to react... as Twister grappled her into a tight hug.

"Twister, let her go," Lars ordered.

"You're Reggie," Twister told Reggie, pulling out of the hug. "Reggie Rocket!"

"Hey. Twister. Come on. You need to keep your hands to yourself, remember?" Twister didn't obey, and went for Sam next, but Lars intervened, pulling him sharply back. "No."

"But that's Sammy!" Twister protested, struggling. "Sammy and Otto!"

"You need to _leave_," Lars said again, in a growl. "Get out of here, before he hurts you or himself."

Though they didn't know why Lars and his parents seemed so alarmed by Twister's attempts to hug them, there was something about the boy's frantic movements that made them uneasy. It was clear as day that Twister wasn't entirely in control of himself, and they took Lars' warning seriously, turning to walk away.

"Wait! Lars, let me go! Let go!"

"You'll see them again another time, mi hijo," Sandy soothed him. "Come, let's go inside."

"But they killed me, mama! They killed me, I see it! I see their eyes!" Twister raged, shouting at the top of his voice. "It's not right! They killed me! I don't want them to feel like I died!"

He'd started crying, still battling with his brother, and now his father, as they began escorting him into the house. His distress made the other teens stop, turning once more, their hearts heavy for him. His anguished expression was the last thing they saw, before his family shut the door.


	26. Chapter 25

Ray was not happy – that much, even a stranger could tell. Otto, Reggie and Sam remained quiet, hoping his ire wouldn't redirect itself from Twister, and onto them somehow.

"I want the truth, Twister," Ray said sternly. "I'd never expect you, of all people, to try to _steal_ from me, and I hope for your sake that you have a good answer for me."

Twister seemed to radiate shame from where he sat. He fidgeted, never looking directly at Ray or any of the others. Before him, on one of the Shack tables, lay Ray's set of keys to the restaurant and safe. Minutes ago, Ray had caught him trying to steal them from the counter behind the bar. It was no childish game of hiding his keys, either; the kid had actively tried to conceal his efforts, and had lied and attempted escape when confronted about it.

"Why did you want the keys?" Ray prompted, leaning in over him.

"I'm sorry, Raymundo," Twister mumbled back. "I-I... I just wanted to see, uh... what the place would be like at night-"

"Stop. Lying. To me."

Twister fell silent, looking as if he wanted to disappear. His friends watched him, still shocked and in disbelief at his actions. Even Tito, seated nearby, looked grim.

Ray sighed. "Alright. Since you won't tell me, maybe you'd like to tell Officer Shirley-"

"Don't!" Twister's eyes went wide. "Please, don't..."

"Then _tell_ me the _truth!_ No more lies."

"I... I can't. I can't tell you."

"And why not?"

"I just can't, okay?!" Twister shouted, voice threatening to break, before he realized his overreaction. "I'm sorry."

As Ray threw his hands up and turned away for a moment, Tito frowned, leaning forward in his seat a little. Where the others saw a teen who wouldn't face the consequences of his misbehavior, Tito suspected he could see something more.

"Little cuz," he said, gently, "What's going on with you, huh? This isn't like you. The Twister I know has a heart of gold. Maybe he gets into trouble sometimes, but his spirit is pure. Where is he today?"

"Maybe he's not here anymore," Twister muttered back miserably, looking like he was on the verge of tears. "Maybe... I dunno, Tito. I don't wanna be here anymore."

"Well, I hate to break it to you, bruddah, but until you let us know what happened-"

"Not here," Twister blurted. "I don't... I don't wanna be... _here_."

Tito was stumped. He traded a look with Ray, who shrugged, just as confused by this statement. Twister gripped the sides of his head in frustration, as if he were close to blurting some secret, but couldn't quite bring himself to do it.

"What do you mean, Twister?" Ray asked irritably. "You have to try to use your words. You're not gonna get very far in life if you keep acting like this."

"Yeah, well, maybe I don't want to go fucking far in life."

It was the second such outburst from Twister, but this time, it really was broken. He kept his head down, like what he'd just said was a confession to the worst possible sin in the universe. Ray tilted his head, then drew up a chair, seating himself across the table.

"And what's that supposed to mean? You don't want to work, so you decided to steal from me, or what?"

"No."

"Then WHAT, Twister?! For god's sake-"

"People like me are _fucked!_" Twister snarled, finally looking up, and revealing that he'd started crying. "Fucked! There's no future. There's nothing. And I'm sorry, okay? I didn't want you to know – I didn't want anyone to know, until later. I wouldn't have taken your money, Raymundo," he finished weakly, "Just... just the other thing."

While the trio exchanged their own looks of confusion, Ray and Tito both paled. Ray's jaw hung open a little, as he searched Twister's eyes, hoping that what the boy was hinting at was not true – that it was another lie. Twister could only look back at him for a few moments, before he cast his gaze away, and closed his eyes, crying hard. He went back to covering his head, and the shame in him was stronger than ever.

Tito recovered first. He looked to the other teens, establishing that they hadn't quite caught on yet. He rose from his seat and went to them, while Ray watched Twister with a terrible, sad expression.

"Need you three to wait for us upstairs," Tito instructed.

"What?!" Otto blurted. "But-"

"But nothing. We'll explain everything afterward, but right now, you need to give him space."

"I don't understand, Tito," Reggie said uneasily. "What did he do?"

"Fortunately, nothing, except steal keys, but that doesn't matter now. I promise you, I'll explain later. Everything's gonna be fine."

Reluctantly, they let Tito usher them upstairs, glancing back every few moments at their friend, with expressions ranging from concern to suspicion. Tito made sure the door shut behind them, before he returned to the table, and nodded at Ray. Unbeknownst to any of them, the door opened again almost immediately, and with as much stealth as she could muster, Reggie crept out onto the steps, listening in, and peering out just enough to watch.

"Okay, buddy," Ray said softly to Twister, "Can you tell me what you were planning to do?"

"What else am I supposed to do with a pistol, man?"

Reggie clamped her hands over her mouth just in time to stop a gasp from escaping.

"Take it easy," said Ray. "I just want to be sure. Were you going to try to use it against anyone?"

"No... I don't want other people hurt."

"Were you going to try to use it on yourself?"

There was a long, tense silence. Twister didn't answer, sniffling. Tito and Ray waited patiently, all their ire gone. Finally, Twister nodded – just once – and when he did, both men looked utterly heartbroken. Reggie, too, felt her chest seize with the implication of that nod, and had she not started feeling worried sick for Twister, she'd have turned around and retreated back upstairs, away from all of this.

Tito moved closer to Twister, looking like he wanted to wrap the kid up in a hug and never let go. He didn't follow through, still aware that the kid needed space, but made it clear that he was there as support. Ray rubbed his chin anxiously, wearing an expression of anguish that Reggie hadn't seen on him since her mother died.

"When did you start feeling like this?" he asked, his voice choked.

"Awhile ago," Twister confessed. "When... when they started talking about college at school. Everybody's always talking about how we need good grades to get in, and if we don't, we'll end up going nowhere. I-I... I don't have good grades. I can't get good grades, and I can't... I can't keep up. And Reg and Otto and Sam can do it, and they're going to go places, and I'll just be... just be Twister. The same stupid fuck who can't do math," he sounded pained now, the despair of his words driving through him, "The idiot who gets in trouble and doesn't contribute anything. A fucking waste of space!"

"Hey," Ray said sternly, startled by the intensity of his self-loathing, "Don't you talk like that, okay? Don't you dare. You're good at plenty of things, and you are _not_ a waste of space – not even close. I've never seen anyone more skilled with a camera, or with the arts."

"But people don't give a shit about any of that! Maybe the touchy-feely counselor bullshit says people are supposed to, but that's not real, man. It's not real. Everybody wants degrees and people who are smart. And I'm not. I'm dumb. People like me work as janitors the rest of their lives, or get fucked up in the streets. And I'm not going out like that. I can't do this shit anymore... if life is supposed to be struggle like this, all the time, I don't want it anymore. I don't want it. I don't wanna be left behind."

"Twister. I know it's hard right now, and you're probably really scared, especially with everyone your age talking about college and the future. But you're gonna be okay, you hear me? You do have skills, and people _do_ give a shit about those skills."

"I don't believe that."

Ray took in a deep, calming breath, clearly trying to keep his own tears at bay.

Tito stepped in. "A lotta what I'm hearing right now sounds like it might go a little deeper than worries about the future," he said evenly. "Sounds like you don't love yourself like you should, little cuz."

For a moment, a look of utter disgust crossed Twister's face. It scared Reggie, and clearly scared the adults, too, for it was a direct, automatic reaction to Tito's suggestion that he love himself. Though it faded quickly, it had been far too raw and violent a mood swing to be remotely normal.

"Why the hell should I love myself?" Twister growled bitterly. "Other people have to go out of their way to help me. And they're laughing at me, all the time. I can see it. They know I'm a moron. What am I supposed to love about that?"

"You remember what I said about the Twister I know, having a heart of gold? You still do. Even if you don't believe it," Tito added, as he saw another hateful look starting up. "_Even_ if you don't believe it, you should know that not as many people are laughing at you as you might think. In fact, people laugh with you, or look to you to ease their sorrows. And you know what makes part of my day complete? Seeing you come in here, every day, and cheer the other little cuzes up, just by being there."

"I don't cheer them up..."

"Oh, yes, you do. They love you, and _we_ love you. Things wouldn't be the same without you."

"But I'm not worth anything! I'm... I'm worthless, Tito. How can you love that?! I don't... I don't understand... I don't get how you can just _say_ that."

In that moment, watching Twister struggle with this concept, Reggie saw just how much he _needed_ to hear, and see, that he was loved. In a rare moment of clarity, she thought back on her years of friendship with him, and to all the times he'd seemed down, or the little moments when he'd say something subtly self-depreciating. Every time he was like that, he'd try to play it off as a joke, and others would follow along, without ever stopping to tell him no: No, that's not right, and you shouldn't say these things about yourself.

She made a bold decision then, rising from her hiding place on the stairs. She heard Sam and Otto hiss at her in panic, but ignored them, marching deliberately down, and making herself known. Tito, Ray and Twister all looked up as she appeared, but she gave no heed to her father's angry expression, or Tito's frown of disappointment. She met Twister's eye, and went straight towards him, not hesitating for a minute, even in the face of his fearful confusion.

When she reached him, she took his hands, tugged him up, and embraced him tightly.

"You're not worthless," she whispered in his ear. "You're not. Not to me, or anyone else here."

"Reg-"

"You're _not_, Twister. Tito's right: You're my best friend, and I love you. Do you understand me? There's no 'but'. No strings attached. And it's not a joke or ploy; I'm not saying it just to make you feel better, either. We love you, end of story. It's important that you remember that."

Twister fell silent, but eventually, he returned the hug, and she could feel his tears soaking through her shirt. The way he held on, shaking and hyperventilating as he was with his crying, took the last barriers out of Reggie's defenses, and she broke, too. Rocket Girl – spirit of hellfire, and bastion of tough girl power everywhere – wept with her friend. She cried at the mental image of Twister placing a stolen gun to his head, and pulling the trigger, and cried at the pain and torment she'd seen in him this tumultuous evening.

Only a few moments later, Sam and Otto followed Reggie's warpath down the stairs, and stopped dead at what they were witnessing. And though they didn't know the full context of what was happening, they saw Twister in deep pain, and saw Reggie open her heart to him, and it was enough; they joined in that hug, surrounding him, and were themselves joined seconds afterward by Ray and Tito.

…

The return to the Rocket residence was a quiet affair. The group moved around Twister, who, after a solid hour of nonstop crying, was utterly spent. He'd stopped his relentless sobbing after his breakdown, and now, the tears were fewer and silent. In the car, on the way back up the hill, he didn't look at anyone, and was too exhausted to give more than one-word responses. He was on autopilot, walking into the residence, and when Noelani opened the door to greet them, she was shocked by the state of him.

"It's... complicated," Ray murmured to her, planting a kiss on her cheek, as she stared worriedly after the boy. "I gotta talk to his parents first. Kids, why don't you take Twister upstairs, and hang out for a little while?"

The teens needed no prompting. Otto came up behind his friend, and wrapped a brotherly arm around his shoulders, offering an easy smile that didn't quite drive away the worry in his eyes. He, Sam and Reggie went for the stairs together, and the unspoken agreement between them was that they would have their own pow-wow about all that had occurred.

Tito watched them go, then turned to his cousin. "Let's sit down in the kitchen. I have a feeling Ray's gonna be awhile on the phone – I'll fill you in."

As a matter of fact, Ray wasn't terribly long on the phone – mostly because Sandy and Raoul Rodriguez lived across the street. At first, Sandy had answered normally, and listened to what Ray had to tell her. But when she heard about what Twister had tried to do, Ray's ear was nearly blown out from a string of Spanish too fast for him to comprehend. The line had disconnected shortly afterward, but he was certain he wasn't free of it, and he opened the front door and stood by, anxiously watching the Rodriguez house.

Upstairs, in Reggie's room, Twister didn't feel much like talking, even though Otto and Sam sat patiently on the floor in front of him. He listened to the indistinct murmur of Ray's conversation on the phone, then sighed heavily, leaning his elbows on his knees. Reggie offered him a comforting hand to the back, then pulled at him gently, bidding him to lie down on the bed.

"Come on," she said softly. "You're exhausted."

Twister didn't object, and Reggie shifted so he could rest. When he settled on his back and shut his eyes, he said, "You can tell them, Reg. They're gonna find out anyway."

Reggie looked uncertain. "Are you sure?"

"_I'm_ sure," Otto said pointedly. "Can you please just tell us what's going on, sis? That was the whole point of sending you to eavesdrop."

Swallowing her nerves, Reggie considered her words carefully, and began recapping the boys on everything that had happened. She watched Twister as she spoke, and her hand was absent and wandering, stroking through his hair while he lay still and quiet. He was asleep by the time Reggie had finished, and in warning, she put her finger to her lips. They soon realized it didn't matter; raised, frightened voices downstairs echoed all the way up to them, and did little to stir Twister from his stress-induced slumber.

Listening to his parents trying to calm a hysterical Sandy Rodriguez, Otto heaved an overwhelmed breath. "So, was anybody gonna tell me dad and Tito keep a _gun_ at the Shack, or was I just supposed to randomly hear that after my best friend broke down and confessed to wanting to kill himself?"

"Subtle, Otto," Sam replied, looking haggard. "Poor Twist... I hope... I hope _we_ didn't do anything to exacerbate this. It sounds like he's been harboring this for a long time."

"I don't think we did," Reggie whispered. "He's not very well. That's nobody's fault."

"Well, now that we know, he can get medicine, right?" Otto said hopefully. "We can take him to a doctor. They'll fix him."

"It's not that simple," Sam said. "It's not like a physical illness, where you can cure it with medicine or something. Whatever's hurting Twister is a mental health issue. He may need a therapist, or long-term psychiatric treatment, or... god, I hope they don't try to hospitalize him-"

Sam's fretting was cut off, as steps boomed on the stairs. The teens stood up from their positions, bracing themselves, and Reggie, in a quick spark of initiative, went to her door, intent on an intercept, before Twister's parents could storm in and wake him.


	27. Chapter 26

Twister hesitated when he came to Otto's door. He'd heard the argument between Otto and Ray, and wondered if maybe now was the wrong time to approach his friend. He wasn't sure when the right time would be, however, and he looked down nervously at the math packet in his hands. It was due tomorrow, and he knew Mr. Redkey would be furious with him if he didn't complete it. His failure would lead to yet another call to his parents, and he'd get his camera taken again.

Deciding he'd rather face Otto's irritation, than that of his parents, he reached up and knocked on the door.

"Go away!" came the furious snap. "I don't wanna talk, Raymundo!"

"Uh, Ottoman... it's me."

"Well, I don't wanna talk to you, either."

"Sorry, dude, I just... I really need your help with something-"

"Twister, if it's math homework again, I can't help you. You need to figure it out by yourself."

"But I tried that already! I don't get the questions. Can I just look at your answers?"

"_No_, Twist! I don't need a moron like you to drive me crazy right now! I have enough problems without your stupid questions every five seconds. Now _fuck off!_"

Twister flinched at the words, and though he knew Otto was just angry, and probably didn't mean them, they hurt, all the same. Feeling an ache in his chest, he withdrew, back downstairs, trying to distract himself with other options. He didn't know where Reggie was, and he hadn't approached Sam yet because Sam had made it clear to his friends that he was swamped with his joint project with Oliver.

He left the Rocket house anyway, and headed in the direction of Sam's place. Paula let him in distractedly, said something about him taking care not to trip and hurt himself on the mat again, and resumed the gossipy phone call she was currently having with some other hen of the town. He made his way to Sam's room, and was met with another closed door. Apprehensive, and still a little wounded by Otto's rejection, he knocked.

There was no response, but he could hear Sam shuffling around in there, muttering to himself. When a second knock was still met with silence, Twister sighed, and opened it, thinking maybe Sam had headphones in. As he pushed at the door, he met with some small resistance, and frowned, applying more pressure, before he heard a sudden gasp.

"MOM! I _told_ you, don't come in here! There's delicate equipment here! STOP! You're going to crush it!"

Twister stopped obediently, then stuck his head through the gap he'd made, and stared in puzzlement at the amount of machinery debris all over Sam's room. "Sorry, dude. Also, I'm not your mom-"

"Twister, get out," Sam said flatly, scowling at him. "You almost destroyed the turbines."

"Sorry! I didn't mean to, I just wanted to ask if you-"

"I need to get this project finished," Sam interrupted him, turning away and busying himself with a set of gears. "I don't have time to go surfing with you, okay? And next time, if I don't answer the door, don't just barge in here! I would have thought even someone as simple as _you_ would be able to grasp that basic knowledge."

"I'm sorry," Twister said weakly, looking away, as he felt that ache again. "I'll just... I'll see you later, Squid."

He pulled the door shut behind him, staring despondently at the math packet. He was about to make his exit, when he heard a worn sigh from Sam.

"Idiot..." came an irascible mumble.

This time, the pain was a lot sharper, and Twister felt his throat close up. He made a much more desperate retreat from the building this time, and found that as he walked, he was struggling to breathe. Trying to keep his focus, he diverted to the exit by the kitchen, to at least let Paula know he was leaving. Again, he stopped at the voice.

"Oh, no, don't come over yet. Sammy has his little Mexican buddy over to play... oh, you know, dear – the slow one... no, no, I don't generally let him near most of the appliances. Did I tell you about last weekend? You know the expression, 'A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush'? He actually came inside, with a bird! I know! He kept asking how much he could get for it... oh, yes, I do feel sorry for Sandy, really. I wonder if she's taken him to a doctor, to see if... yes, exactly, retardation was just what I was thinking of..."

Twister didn't want to listen anymore. He'd known what the expression had meant, but he'd wanted to play a fun joke, showing he understood. All it had produced was laughter and condescending explanations, and one very alarmed bird. Now, the incident was seared into his mind like a burning mark of shame. He only wondered for a moment who Paula was talking to, before deciding he didn't care.

He left the house in near-tears, and scowled at the thought of crying. He hadn't felt this awful in a long time – not since he was a kid, at least. He found the ache had started playing on his fears, as a stranger passed by and glanced at him. Was that person casting a silent judgment on him? He wasn't sure; he just knew that the thought of going to talk to anyone else today made him feel physically sick.

Once more, he looked down at his barely-finished homework. It agitated the wound in his heart, and he crumpled it, moodily stuffing it into his pocket, before sullenly making his way down the hill. He didn't really know why, but at this point in time, he wanted to sit somewhere on the beach, far away from other people. He only hoped that it would drive away the pain.

He was so caught up in his own struggles that he didn't notice his name being called, until he was suddenly stopped, mid-stride, by a strong hand on his shoulder. Snapped out of his gloomy reverie, he blinked, and saw Reggie beside him, with her bike by her side.

"Earth to Twister!" she called. "You with me?"

"Hey... sorry, Reg, I was just thinking, I guess."

Reggie gave him a smirk that, on any other day, he might have known was only playful. "You, _thinking?_ That's a good one, Twist."

He looked away from her, not really able to see that she was joking. She lost her grin as she saw a sad dejection take his eyes, with a slight slouch in his posture that told her he was feeling exposed, ashamed, and humiliated.

"What's up?" she asked, more kindly. "You look kind of down..."

"It's nothing. I gotta go, um... help Conroy with some stuff. See you later."

His tone was completely flat as he said this, and he didn't bother to wait for a reply, as he started his way down the hill again. Reggie stared after him worriedly, and for a moment, considered going after him. She decided against it, for the moment, only because she knew it might drive him to silence and deflection. Getting to the heart of the matter with him could be like pulling teeth sometimes, and for that, Reggie knew she'd need a hand from the other guys.

She made double time getting home, casting her bike aside in a hurry. She only gave her dad a passing wave as she bolted upstairs, with intent to invade her brother's room. Stopping as Twister had done only a little earlier, she hammered on the door. A violent curse replied.

"Twister, I swear to god!" Otto grumbled, stalking nearer and hauling open the door with unnecessary aggression. "I am not helping you with your math home-Reggie?" he paused, perplexed, then scowled. "What do you want? If dad sent you-"

"Dad didn't send me to do anything," Reggie said reproachfully, staring at him. "Twister was here? Did you guys fight or something?"

"What? No. He kept bothering me to help him with his math homework. I swear to god, I feel older every time he says something stupid..."

"Hey, whoa. Time out, Rocket Boy. Don't be harsh on Twist just because you and dad fought."

"Look, did you want something, or did you come to nag me, too?" Otto demanded, grabbing the door.

Reggie lost all patience. "I came here because I just ran into Twister on my way back here," she snapped. "He looked _really_ upset, Otto. I don't know what you said to him to make him look that way, but you better figure out a way to apologize to him!"

"Apologize? Why?! He's being a baby. Is he really gonna cry over math homework?"

"You did say something to him, then."

"It wasn't even that serious! I just told him to go away!"

"And?"

They traded silent, hostile glares for a good minute. Reggie folded her arms, waiting, and Otto very nearly slammed the door, there and then. He held her gaze... then threw his arms up, and turned away.

"What _else_ did you say to him?" Reggie pressed.

"I might've said I didn't want a moron like him to drive me crazy... but I was mad, okay? He knows I didn't mean it-"

"No. I don't think he does," Reggie said quietly. "That was really harsh, Otto."

"I'm sorry, okay?!"

"It's not me you have to say that to. I might be willing to go with you to find him, but I am _not_ playing messenger for you, especially for something like that. What were you thinking? He's not some kook you can rag on like that – he's your best friend. And you _know_ how sensitive he is."

Otto sighed heavily. "I wasn't thinking. Alright? I get it. I fucked up. Now can we go find him, before this turns into a whole thing?"

Reggie wasn't satisfied with his attitude, but decided under the circumstances, it would have to do. "I'm gonna grab Sammy first."

"He said not to bother him..."

"Well, his project can wait. Twist needs him; he needs all of us."

Otto stared, finally seeing through his anger, and realizing just how worried Reggie looked. She didn't worry like that often, or for many people – which meant that whatever she'd seen in Twister was serious. And that, in turn, began worrying Otto.

They left the house together, startling Ray, who was still puzzling over his son's earlier outburst. His calls after them went unheard, as they bolted over to Sam's place. They barely waited for Paula to open the door, before they babbled greetings and charged for Sam's room.

"Sammy, open up!" Reggie called, hammering away on the wood. "It's important!"

"Reggie, I already had this discussion with Twister!" Sam snapped from inside, sounding harassed. "I'm not going surfing! Also, _please_ don't open the door – he already did that, and nearly ruined four hours of work!"

Otto and Reggie exchanged looks. "Dude, Twister was here?" Otto asked. "Is he still there?"

"No, he's not still here! Are you kidding? He'd ruin everything in seconds! Now, leave – I'm busy!"

Reggie narrowed her eyes at the door. "Sam. I'm coming in. You've got thirty seconds to move your stuff."

There was a heavy hesitation, and then a panicked scrambling, as Sam recognized the seriousness in Reggie's tone. Only a few moments later, the door opened of its own accord, and Sam stood there, adjusting his glasses, and casting his friends a nervous look. Otto began struggling to put words together, to try to find the best way to explain things to him, but Reggie was having none of it.

"We're going to find Twister," she said flatly.

"Reg, I'm sorry I shouted at you, but-" Sam began, before he yipped, as Reggie grabbed his wrist, and pulled him along. "Have I mentioned how important this project is?"

"Did you yell at Twister, too?" Reggie demanded, as they left, with Paula waving behind them.

"At...? Oh," Sam realized. "Um... yeah. Yeah, I kind of did. Why? Is he mad?"

He looked at Otto desperately, seeking answers, but found Otto couldn't quite meet his eye, and walked like a condemned man.

"Reggie, please tell me what's going on," Sam said, softening his voice at last. "And why are we looking for Twister?"

"We're looking for Twister," Reggie replied hotly, "Because _someone_ dissed him hard, and now he's wandering around somewhere looking like a kicked puppy."

Sam stopped walking then, and pulled out of Reggie's grasp. She turned right around on him, barely-contained fury radiating from her.

"I made it worse, didn't I? I thought he sounded a little out of it, but I was so caught up working that I... oh, no," he blurted, his eyes widening. "Oh, no, no, no... he must have heard me during the software test!"

"English, Squid?" Otto said.

"I was reading through the coding on a program right after Twister spoke to me," Sam explained hurriedly, looking more and more pallid by the second. "I reached a point where I noticed the coder had put in some stupid personal signature, which messed up the code, and I said... I said 'idiot.' Out loud. Twister... he must've thought I was calling _him_ that. Oh, man..."

Reggie shut her eyes for a moment, rubbing her forehead. It was an attempt to calm herself, but all she could see were flashes, in her mind's eye, of that terrible expression on Twister's face. When she opened her eyes again, she found Otto and Sam staring at her apprehensively, as if she might very well bite their heads off if they made a sudden move. It wasn't too far from the truth.

"Where would he have gone?" she asked, through gritted teeth.

"The Shack?" Otto suggested.

"Maybe Mad Town?" said Sam.

"I don't think so... he wouldn't go anywhere with the potential to get made fun of again-"

"It wasn't on purpose," Sam mumbled.

"I know that, Sammy, but he doesn't. He's probably feeling pretty awful right now. So he'd want to go somewhere he feels safe."

The trio looked at one another abruptly.

"Under the Pier," they said together, taking off at a sprint.

…

It was supposed to be a safe place. It was supposed to be his zone of retreat, no matter what. And it was also where he was currently facing yet another humiliation, in a string of terrible events today.

"Come on now, Rodriguez," Tice encouraged, looking amused behind his usually-stony expression. "It's a measuring tape. You... _do_ know what those are, don't you?"

People on the beach – shoobie and local alike – broke into laughter. He felt their stares on him, and his hands began to shake, as he tried to wind Tice's yard tape back into itself. It had come unreeled when Twister had accidentally run into him, and now... now, this simple item had become one of the instruments of his torment, because he kept dropping the blasted thing, and had failed several times to wrap it up again.

"Can you count, grunt?" Tice went on, still furious at the youth for interrupting his activity. "Follow after me, alright? One... two... three... am I going too fast? Four... five..."

He counted with deliberate, exaggerated slowness, and the laughter increased. Twister dropped the tape again, but this time, he didn't pick it up. It was a final defense mechanism that made him move now; a method of escape. His chest hurt so badly, he was afraid his heart was stopping, and air didn't come easily. He turned his back on Tice and the crowd, making a beeline for the underside of the Pier.

His action was met with outraged jeers from some of the watchers. He could feel Tice's furious gaze on his back, but he didn't glance back once, not even when someone hit him with something thrown in spite. He was done now; his insides were being devoured by some wicked caustic, and he was done. He hadn't known it was possible to still exist after this amount of agony, but somehow, he was still here, unable to escape.

Nobody pursued him to the Pier, but he knew they were still staring at him. Even when he disappeared behind the shelter of the pillars, he felt like they were watching him, and he expected someone to come over there, any second, and begin berating him all over again. He slumped down miserably into the sand, hiding his head in his arms.

His anger was gone. That trusty shield of deflection, standard for young men everywhere, had crumbled under the onslaught, and now there was little else but him and his despair. He hated himself for it, because as far as he was concerned, the tears he was barely keeping in check were just another sign of weakness – another sign of his stupidity.

Laughter from a distance made him shrink in on himself more, cowering. He couldn't tell whether it was for him anymore, and the uncertainty shook his core. The tears came unbidden then, spilling over as his mind replayed every single insult and look he'd received. Words hammered at his soul: _Moron. Idiot. Stupid. Slow. Retard._

He didn't know how long he sat there, weeping in silence, and he felt inclined to stay there indefinitely. He ignored further sound, even when passing footsteps paused, their owners noticing him. Every time, the footsteps would continue after a moment, with accompanying whispers.

Every time, save one.

"Twister?"

His whole body tensed. The tone had been soft; caring. Full of pained sympathy and shock. He knew the owner of it, but wished he didn't. He curled in tighter on himself, hoping they would leave him alone. His wishes were in vain, he knew, when trudging in the sand drew nearer.

A hand went to his shoulder, and he flinched away at once, as if he'd been burned. "Go away."

Reggie felt her heart tug at the obvious fracture in her friend's voice. "Twist," she sighed, sitting down on the sand next to him, "Otto and Sam are here, too. They've come to say something to you."

Sam and Otto, standing nearby, stared at Twister openly, astonished to see him in such a state. They traded sheepish looks, before Otto sighed, taking the lead, and keeping wary note of Reggie's stern eye.

"Twist, I'm sorry," he said sincerely. "I didn't mean to snap at you like that, bro. I know I said some mean stuff... and I really wish I hadn't."

"Ditto," Sam added glumly. "I don't think you're an idiot, Twist-"

"Yes, you do," Twister replied brokenly. "I dunno why you pretend. You'll say this stuff to my face, then go on thinking I'm stupid. And I _am_ stupid."

"That's not true," Reggie defended. "You're definitely on a different frequency, I'll grant you that. But you're an incredible videographer! Plus, you're great at the arts. Do you remember that time we entered that sandcastle contest, and you blew everyone out of the water with those amazing buildings? You have _talent_, Twister. Maybe it's not the same talent as everyone else has, but it's there."

"Well, nobody gives a fuck about sand castles, or videos!" Twister snapped, raising his head to glower at her with bloodshot eyes. "That shit doesn't get jobs or help me graduate – people want math and stuff to count, not art. I can't keep up, Reg. And everyone knows it."

He pulled the balled-up worksheet from his pocket, and threw it across the beach, uncaring of how childish this made him look. It rolled to a halt at Sam's feet, and while Otto went and sat down on the other side of Twister, trying with Reggie to talk some sense back into him, Sam leaned down, collecting the paper.

On a whim, he unfolded it, remembering what Twister had said earlier about needing help with math. He'd helped his friend plenty of times over, but it occurred to him he'd never actually _looked_ at the way Twister solved problems. Smoothing the paper out, he examined the problems Twister had tried to finish, hoping it might provide him with some fuel to help rebuild the boy's self-esteem.


	28. Chapter 27

When Reggie entered the apartment she shared with the guys, she hadn't been expecting much; she knew Otto would be out late pulling a double shift, and Sam had evening classes, as well. Twister was the only other person who'd be home, and she fully anticipated seeing him camped out in front of the TV, either playing games or working on a video project.

And he _was_ camped out in front of the TV... except he was sprawled on the sofa, asleep. There was still enough daylight out on this summer evening, but the curtains were closed in the living room and kitchen areas, and light inside was dim. Squinting in the dark, Reggie set her pack down, and drew open the curtains, hoping it would wake Twister long enough that he dragged himself to his room.

There was no response to this, and she frowned; he was a very light sleeper – nearly an insomniac, and most _certainly_ a damn vampire, with his tendency to stay up well into the small hours – but the action that should have woken him did nothing. Curious, and a little concerned, she made her way over to him.

She stopped when she saw the coffee table.

It was mostly clean, save for a couple copies of her Zine, the remote, an empty beer glass... and a distinctive orange pill bottle. Reggie looked between Twister and the bottle uneasily, and reached out to pick it up. The remaining contents consisted of only two or three small, white pills, which rattled a little as she rotated the container to read the label.

Bold, capitalized letters stared back at her coldly: VICODIN, 10mg. The date of issue was less than a day ago, and yet the bottle was almost gone.

"Twister?" Reggie called, alarmed, dropping the bottle. She moved into a crouch beside the sofa, reaching out to shake his shoulder. "Twister. Wake up. Please, wake up..."

He didn't wake, exactly; his response was a weak, almost inaudible moan, and he sighed, stirring only a little, while his eyelids fluttered. This close to him, Reggie saw a sheen of sweat on his forehead that shouldn't have been there; the apartment was air-conditioned and cool, and was well away from the summer heat. No, this sweat was from something different; something like drugs.

"Twister, it's Reggie," she tried again. "Can you hear me?"

She almost cried out in relief when he opened his eyes, but the feeling was short-lived; he was, for lack of a better term, stoned out of his mind, and his gaze saw nothing. His pupils were markedly different, confirming that the pills were the origin of his current lethargy. After a moment of staring, his eyes slowly slid shut again, and his head dropped to the side. Attempting to wake him again got no results, and his breathing seemed to be slower.

"You idiot," Reggie whispered, drawing her phone from her pocket with shaking hands. "God, Twister, you _moron_..."

The reality that she was currently dialing 911 for her friend settled on her as she pressed the phone to her ear. She reached for Twister's pulse while the line rang, and she found his heartbeat way too sluggish – a match for his breathing.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"My friend has overdosed," Reggie reported quickly, almost choking on the words. "At least, I think he has. I found him with an empty bottle of pills, and he's not really responding to anything. His pulse and breathing are both really slow."

"Okay, honey. Can you read me the label on the bottle?"

"Vicodin, 10mg."

"Alright. I'm sending an ambulance your way – they'll be there as soon as possible. Can you give me your name and address?"

Reggie belted out the information, stumbling over her words. Her heart began to race, and she found herself glancing at the clock every few seconds, praying the ambulance would hurry. All throughout, the dispatcher helped her keep her head, and talked her through basic checks, prompting her to unlock the door, turn Twister on his side, or check his pupil dilation.

The ambulance made excellent time, and Reggie heard the wail of the sirens, as they pulled into the small car lot. She reported as much to the dispatcher, and got off the phone at last, racing to the door to open it. She peered out and waved over a pair of racing EMTs, before moving out of the way. There was little else she could do then, except watch as the medics began prodding and prying at her unconscious friend.

She was startled out of her horrified staring by a hand on her shoulder, and she turned to see a third EMT enter the apartment. "Hey, hon. You Regina Rocket?"

"Reggie. Y-yes. I made the call."

"Okay, good to know, Reggie. Why don't we take a seat for a minute? These guys will take good care of your buddy. How are you holding up?"

She asked Reggie all manner of questions in a calm, soothing tone: Twister's name, his relation to her, his condition, her condition, the date... everything. Reggie barely had the sense of mind to answer them, shocked as she was, and she hardly noticed when a blanket went around her shoulders. She kept trying to stand to see what was happening with Twister, catching glimpses of an oxygen mask and a stretcher, and hearing alarming things like 'respiratory arrest' or 'suicide'.

"Reggie, honey, just stay seated for now," the medic said firmly, pulling her back down for the hundredth time. "Can you tell me a little bit about Maurice? Has he ever attempted anything like this before?"

"No! No, he never... I don't think he's ever been into any drugs," Reggie told her distantly. "Is he going to be okay?"

"They're looking after him. We're gonna take him out to the hospital soon. If you want to, you can ride along with us, alright?"

"Okay... um... I need to call Otto, and Sam-"

"They related to him?"

"No, they're our friends, they share the apartment... oh, god, I need to call his mom..."

"Hey, one step at a time, kiddo. Deep breaths."

"Did he try to kill himself on purpose?" Reggie blurted abruptly, scared by the idea.

"That's something we're gonna work out when we get to the hospital. Come on, now. Let's head over to the ambulance. Do you have your phone, or is there anything else you'd like to grab?"

On autopilot, Reggie made her way to her room, followed closely by the medic. She faintly remembered how crazy hospital visits could get, so she grabbed her charger and a change of clothes, and, after a thought, she went into Twister's room, and gathered up some clothes for him, too. She paused here, looking around at his quarters, and found herself wondering if he'd ever sleep in them again; ever play that beat-up old bass again; ever pick up his camera again.

The EMT walked with her across the car lot, and she realized that the other two were already carrying Twister out of the building behind them. People all over the street had left their homes, and were standing nearby, gawking at him. Reggie felt the urge to run up and slap them; tell them that this wasn't for their eyes. But there was nothing she could do, and it didn't matter, in the end, as she climbed into the ambulance, and watched Twister come in after her.

He was still unconscious, his face concealed beneath the oxygen mask, while his hair was plastered with cold sweat. Reggie reached out to him, minding she didn't get in the way of the medics, and began stroking his forehead rhythmically, not caring that her hands also became soaked in his sweat. He seemed to respond to the touch, just a little, but there was no waking him.

Everything else between then and reaching the hospital was a blur of movement, yelling, doctors, nurses, EMTs, and all the chaos under the sun. When Twister was separated from her, Reggie called after him, as if it might wake him. Then, he was gone, disappearing in the storm, and she found herself being guided to a waiting area.

All was silent here, and she mostly had the place to herself, save one or two ghoulish individuals. The quiet got to her; it let the events catch up to her, and she barely found her way to a chair before she nearly broke. There were no tears – she was Rocket Girl, she told herself, and tears were reserved only for the worst scenarios. But she was close, and she remained there for an unknown stretch of time, just staring.

Her phone buzzing eventually pulled her out of her stupor, and she reached into her pocket, to discover her brother's name glaring out at her from the screen. She stared at it, almost until it stopped ringing, before she brought it to her ear.

"Reg, where are you?!" Otto demanded, the minute she picked up. "Is everything okay? I'm at the apartment, and everyone keeps telling me they took you and Twister out in an ambulance, and there's medical stuff everywhere-"

"Twister... it's Twister, he..." Reggie frowned to herself, trying to will the words out properly. "He overdosed on opiates."

The line was dead-silent, so much so, that Reggie checked her screen, making sure the connection hadn't dropped. "Otto?"

"What do you mean?" Otto asked, his voice oddly hoarse. "What does that mean? Overdosed?!"

"I came home, and he was lying on the sofa, next to a bottle of pills," Reggie said, feeling as if she were listening to someone else speak. "He... he wasn't responding, so I called an ambulance. I'm at the hospital now – they took him away, and they haven't said anything yet, but... he took them all, Otto. He took them all..."


	29. Chapter 28

The excursion had been thrilling so far – so unlike their Grand Canyon mishap, all those years ago. This time, even with Ray and Tito making poor progress, the gang had a great time riding the trails on their bikes, for there were few people out in these wild lands, and setting up camp was a mere matter of finding a flat area with water, instead of being consigned to designated destinations.

On the morning of the third day, one of their number woke with a cough. Twister kept up fine with his friends, and had the stamina of a demon, but got lightly ribbed by the others for exerting himself too much. He simply laughed it off with them, and spent the day charging ahead and racing Otto along the paths. After several climbs and races left him breathing hard, however, he broke into more and more violent coughing fits.

They halted on a ridge together sometime in the late afternoon, to wait for Ray and Tito to catch them up. Setting their bikes aside, they took to a rocky outcropping, sitting in a row and watching the sun cast vibrant colors over the clouds. Snacks came out, and they were content to wait in each other's company.

"Any bets on how many pounds Tito's losing back there?" Otto remarked, between mouthfuls of pretzels.

"We're not going to recognize him when he reaches us," Sam said, before patting his own belly. "I hardly recognize myself. It'll all come back when we get home, though. I already miss the Shack..."

"Dude, don't!" Twister groaned. "Now my trail mix tastes lame."

"Oh, please," Reggie nudged him. "You're eating it like you're going to starve!"

"I'm hungry. Besides, it has M&Ms!"

"It won't if you keep eating only the M&Ms," Sam pointed out.

Twister frowned down at the baggie, poking at the mix with a finger, to see if he'd already accomplished this. As he did, he gave a sudden, sharp wheeze, and had to put the bag down quickly, to cover his mouth as he was taken by another coughing fit. At first, the others ignored it, as they had been doing most of the day. When his coughing got deeper and more fluid, however, they halted mid-conversation, turning to stare at him.

"Easy," Reggie said, patting his back. "You should ask dad for some cough medicine, whenever he gets here."

Twister wasn't in much of a state to reply. When a particularly body-wracking hack had him leaning over, he choked, then spat into the dirt, prompting cries of disgust from his friends. He recovered his breath, slowly, then chuckled weakly, trying to ignore the spots that were dancing in front of his eyes.

"Gross," he said hoarsely. "It's like... black."

"Ew, Twister!" Otto complained. "TMI, dude."

"That's the end of my bagel, then," Reggie muttered, wrinkling her nose.

Unlike his friends, Sam had gone very quiet very suddenly. He gave Twister a strange look, then hastily packed the rest of his snack away, and got up. He leaned over the spot where his friend had spat up, prompting all manner of comments, but he ignored them.

"Twist," he said carefully, straightening, "You cough anything else like that up today?"

"Uh, I don't think so..." Twister replied, scratching the back of his head. "Though it started feeling like I had something stuck in my chest and throat when we were halfway up the last hill. Why?"

"Have you been smoking?"

"No way, man, smoking's gross. Why, though?"

"What's up, Sammy?" Reggie added, picking up on Sam's troubled mood.

"Stuff like that doesn't come up at random," Sam said. "And with his cough, it's not a great sign. I'm definitely on board with getting some medicine from Raymundo, and maybe taking things a little easier from now on."

"Dude, I am _not_ hanging back with the Golden Oldies," Twister complained. "I'm fine. It's probably just dirt or something."

"Did it feel cold when you coughed it up?"

"Aw, man, Squid, that's even worse!" Otto cried. "Twister, I swear to god, if you answer him-"

"Yeah, actually. Weird."

Otto glared daggers at them, but said no more, partially because Reggie was scowling back at him, and partially because he, too, was secretly worried about Twister. He didn't like the troubled look on Sam's face, either.

"Yeah. Medicine, definitely medicine," Sam mumbled, still staring openly at Twister.

Twister squirmed under the looks the others were giving him. "Guys, I'm okay! I promise. Will you _stop_ looking at me like that?!"

Sam didn't comply. Instead, he suddenly lunged forward, and planted his hand on Twister's forehead. Twister blinked, confused, but went very still, looking strangely calm.

Otto snorted. "You're like a rabbit, bro. Plant a hand over your face, and you get all chill-"

"He has a fever," Sam said quietly.

"Are you sure, Sammy?" Reggie asked, putting her hand on Twister's forehead after Sam. "It could just be heat from the exercise..." she trailed off as she felt the unusual levels of heat from her friend's forehead.

"Well, look at his face. He's a little flushed in the cheeks, and a little paler, and with exertion heat, that usually fades pretty quickly. I'm calling fever; he's getting sick."

"He's also right here!" Twister growled, pulling away from Reggie's hand irritably. "It's hot out here, that's all."

"It's not, though, dude," Otto said.

"Not you, too!"

"I'm serious. I'm putting a jacket on in a minute."

"And you should, too," Sam advised Twister sternly. "It might feel hot for awhile, but you can't risk getting sicker than you already are."

"Whatever," Twister grumbled. "You guys are worse than my mom."

"Nobody is worse than your mom," Reggie deadpanned.

"Correction: Nobody is worse than _my_ mom," Sam shot back.

The mood was a little more relaxed after that, though their worries weren't entirely gone, even after they had all put on jackets. Twister squirmed in his like a little kid, uncomfortable, but not long after they had consigned themselves to playing cards in the fading light, he began to shiver. It was very slight at first, but soon enough, his friends noticed, and exchanged looks.

"Here," Sam removed his coat, and wrapped it around Twister's shoulders.

"But now you'll get cold!"

Sam patted his belly. "I already have layers," he quipped.

They all burst into laughter at this, which only prompted another coughing fit from Twister. His friends stuck by him, feeling more uneasy by the minute, as that terrible, viscous, fluid-filled hacking took Twister's body by storm. He spat up more dark stuff, but the coughing didn't end there, and in moments, he was leaning over in the dirt, struggling to draw breath, and bringing up more dark spit.

"Jesus," Sam said in a hushed voice, crouching by him. "Hang on a minute, buddy. I have something that'll help."

He reached into his cargo pocket, pulling out his inhaler and a set of disinfectant wipes. He cleaned the mouthpiece of the inhaler, then waited patiently, supporting Twister, while the boy finished bringing up a lung. As Sam had predicted, even after Twister had stopped coughing, he couldn't quite get a full breath, and as he sat down, leaning his back against a rock, he looked afraid for the first time, realizing that no matter what he did, the air would not come to him. Sam shook the inhaler again, and brought it up to Twister.

"Close your mouth around it, and when you next breathe in, press down on the top," he instructed.

Twister obeyed, grabbing the inhaler with shaking hands and drawing from it, though he had to do it a couple of times before he got the timing right. Once the medicine hit his body, though, his breathing eased up a little more, and he relaxed.

"Thanks, Squid," he managed weakly.

Sam nodded, cleaning the inhaler. "Just chill there for a bit, okay?"

"'Kay. I feel kinda dizzy, though. Is that normal?"

"Well, I won't call it 'normal', but expected, yeah," Sam stood up, turning to where Otto and Reggie waited by worriedly. "We need to get Raymundo, now," he said, out of Twister's hearing. "He's getting worse."

"I'll go," Otto said decisively, grabbing his helmet.

"Don't wait up for him and Tito; get cough medicine, and vapor rub, if he has it, and come straight back. Reg, you and I should start setting up tents."

"Here?" Reggie said, surprised.

"The stream's not too far back, and we have plenty of water. There's no telling where the next spot will be, and I don't want Twister pushing himself too far."

Agreed on a plan of action, they set off to their tasks. Otto shot off at top speed, fueled by concern for his friend. Twister gave him a tired wave, then watched Sam and Reggie shift the bikes off the path, to a relatively flat area nearby. They began spacing out the tents, and going was slow. Twister, troubled by their lack of progress, began the alarmingly painstaking process of trying to get to his feet. He used the rock for support, disliking the way he had to struggle for air.

He was on his feet eventually, though, and he shuffled in the direction of his friends, staggering unsteadily over uneven ground. He felt terribly dizzy, and wondered what had happened to the strength he'd had only hours before. Panting, he paused for a moment, to catch what breath he could, before his world began to feel a bit funny. He could still see and hear Sam and Reggie, but they seemed weirdly out of focus, and curiously muffled and distant.

Some instinct told him to sit back down, and he ignored it, determined to help. He wasn't some weak invalid, he decided, and with his help, they could get the tents up more easily. He took a few more faltering steps, then stopped again, as the world tilted. At this point, Reggie, who had changed positions to try to lift one of the tents, spotted him, and her eyes went wide.

"Twister, no! What are you doing?!" she cried, abandoning the tent and running towards him. "You should be resting!"

Sam wheeled around in alarm, and followed moments later as Twister took one more step, and promptly collapsed. Reggie caught him in time, just shy of a jagged rock, and eased him to the ground properly.

"Twist, that wasn't a good move, buddy," Sam said, running up. "Reg is right: you need to keep still and rest-"

"Sammy? I think he's gonna pass out."

Reggie held onto Twister, moving him to his side. He had gone abruptly limp in her hold, and his gaze was a long way away from the present, while all the color from his face had completely drained. His breathing slowed dramatically, and as Sam dropped to a halt beside him, Twister gave a weak sigh. His eyes rolled back, and his head lolled, before Reggie and Sam both brought their hands out to support him.

"Okay... give him a minute," Sam said, his voice tight. "He'll come to in a little bit here. Keep holding his head, I'm gonna prep the inhaler again."

"This is scaring me," Reggie admitted quietly. "Why did he pass out?"

"Not enough oxygen – that, and I guess his fever and general weakness contributed. He's gonna be okay, though. Just give him a minute."

"But what if he keeps getting worse? I've never seen someone get this sick so fast. It's not just some cold, is it?"

"No. It's not. I... I'm not a doctor, or anything, but I do read enough to be blind as a bat, and I'm pretty sure he's got some kind of lung infection. Possibly pneumonia, though I really hope it's not that."

Reggie stared. "He can't get pneumonia out here. He _can't_. We're too far from help."

"I know that. But Tito has the satellite phone, and we're gonna do what we can to help him get better. Worst case scenario, he'll need a rescue chopper, but we're not impossible to reach out here."

Reggie was going to argue – more for the sake of easing her fears than anything else – but stopped when Twister jerked awake in her arms with a sharp gasp. His inhale cost him, and he started up coughing again immediately, while his friends remained by, helpless to do anything except wait. He hacked up more dark fluid, and his breathing was so strained by wheezing that Sam pulled his jackets and shirt away from his chest, trying to ease his suffering.

By the time he'd stopped, there were tears running down his face, from the strain and from stress. He swallowed hard, blinking to clear his vision, looking miserable. Reggie rubbed his arm reassuringly, while Sam gave him an inhaler hit, and carefully checked him over, just to be sure he was alright.

"That sucked," Twister remarked hoarsely, when he'd recovered.

"Yeah, it really did," Reggie said gently. "You okay?"

"I passed out..."

"Yeah, you did. Don't get up on your own again, alright? You really scared us."

"I'm sorry... I just wanted to help set up the tents."

"You let _us_ worry about the tents," Reggie said firmly. "You're sick, Twister. If you don't let yourself rest, you could get a lot worse."

"I don't want that..."

"No, none of us do."

Twister looked around himself, then tried to begin sitting up, despite his orders to rest. Sam and Reggie both helped him, exchanging a worried look between themselves when this supposedly simple movement took the breath out of him. He sat, almost slumped, with that ever-present wheeze.

"I... I don't feel so great," he mumbled.

"Do you feel like you can move again?" Sam asked.

"No."

"Alright. Lie back down here, then."

Twister made no move to obey. He looked ill now, the fever contrasting with his pale, clammy skin. When Sam pulled his shoulder a little, to try to prompt him to go down, he resisted, then pulled completely away with a desperate motion. He leaned over on his side, and without much of a warning, vomit suddenly spilled out of his mouth.

"Whoa, okay," Reggie said, narrowly avoiding getting hit. "Okay, take it easy."

They held him up together, while he coughed and retched, for he wasn't in much shape to keep himself up. His bout of nausea was short, but it was followed by more of that awful hacking, and he began to panic, for he had yet to take a decent breath. They pulled him away from the mess and set him down again, and this time, Reggie removed her coat and cushioned his head.

"Twister, try to stay calm," Sam instructed. "If you hyperventilate, you're going to make things worse. Just take as deep a breath as you can."

They could see him fighting, attempting to stay on track, and they both held him close, speaking comforts as much for him as they did for themselves. He'd lost all semblance of his usual, easygoing attitude, as fear threatened, and he was crying again.

A sound on the path alerted them to Otto's return, and Reggie and Sam looked back desperately, as Otto dismounted the bike and came bolting over to their position. His eyes went wide behind his goggles when he saw just how awful Twister looked, and he threw two items to Sam, to get them to him faster.

"Dad and Tito are not far behind," he panted, dropping to a crouch beside them. "Is he okay? What happened?"

"He's struggling," Reggie told him. "Nice work, though, Rocket Boy."

Sam gave no reply; he was already tugging the cap off a small tub of vapor rub. Ignoring the feeling of mild disgust he got from his action, he dipped his fingers into the substance, dug out a generous amount, and began applying it all over Twister's chest and neck. The boy's breathing eased up a little, aided by this odd medicine, but Sam wasn't done.

"Can you two hold him up a little bit? I'm gonna give him the syrup, and then another hit from the inhaler."

Reggie and Otto complied, taking Twister under the arms, and hoisting him into a sitting position once more. He wasn't too responsive to this, and Sam had to help him, first easing small sips of syrup into his mouth, and then listening to his breathing, and pressing down on the inhaler in time with him.

They rested with him for some time after this, while both panic and lack of air subsided. He grew quieter, tears slowly ceasing, and leaned against Reggie and Otto with his eyes closed, looking utterly spent. Sam eyed him cautiously, noting that the faint, almost blue tinge that had been on his lips earlier had faded.

True to Otto's word, Tito and Ray arrived not long afterward. Both men sounded almost as bad as Twister, wheezing from what had been a rather speedy and generally alarmed race to the ridge after Otto's report that Twister was sick. They were driven by adrenaline more than anything else, and it only surged when they caught sight of the teens, clustered together, with three supporting the fourth as if he'd been shot.

"Kids? Is everyone alright?! Twister? How is he, what does he have?" Ray babbled out, dropping his bike and almost running them over in his haste.

"Dad, chill," Reggie said, passing Twister to Otto and Sam's care, and coming between them and Ray. "He's doing a lot better with the medicine, but he needs to lie down in, like, an actual shelter soon."

Ray and Tito both barged by Reggie, despite her protests, and Ray crouched in front of the boy, concerned by Twister's lack of apparent reaction to this loud arrival. When Ray reached for his pulse, however, he opened hazy eyes, and gave Ray a weak smile.

"Hi," he managed, his voice barely above a rasp.

"Hey, kiddo. How are you holding up?" Ray asked, feeling Twister's scorching forehead with his other hand.

"Tired. Gross. And I'm hungry again, but I'll probably puke it up."

"You threw up?" Ray demanded. "How much? Do you still feel like you're gonna hurl?"

"Bruddah, _relax_," Tito warned. "Little cuz isn't gonna be able to process that many questions at once."

"It was probably just a reaction from when he passed out," Sam informed them. "That can happen sometimes."

"He _passed out?!_" Ray all but screeched.

Sam winced. "...I probably could have broken that news better."

"Do any of you know what caused it?"

"He couldn't breathe," Reggie said quietly. "He was trying to walk to us, to help with the tents, but-"

Ray's expression grew serious, and silenced her. "Tito, get the sat phone."

Tito was already backtracking to the saddlebags on the bikes, digging around for the phone. The teens exchanged uneasy glances, and Twister looked frightened again.

"Am I gonna die?" he asked anxiously.

"Oh, no, buddy," Ray reassured him. "You're not gonna die. Okay? But I don't want you out here in this condition. Passing out like that is pretty serious, so we're gonna get you some help from rescue services, as soon as we can."

"Do I get to ride in a helicopter, like we did in the Grand Canyon?"

At this, everyone smiled. "We'll see," Ray said. "The rescue guys might give you a ride on a four-wheeler, too. That'll be fun, huh?"

Twister managed to smile with them, but it was lost quickly, as another coughing fit took hold of him. His friends braced themselves, having already gotten used to this, and Ray looked on in grim silence, as the boy hacked up more of that dark phlegm. Even Tito got distracted from his mission with the satellite phone, looking up with sad concern. Sam, noticing the panic that was starting to claim Ray, stood up and pulled him aside, bringing him over to Tito's position.

"I think he may have pneumonia," Sam explained in a whisper. "The speed of the onset and the symptoms all check out. I agree that we should call for help, but we need to do the best we can for him in the meantime. He could still die from this if we don't make him rest."

"Pneumonia," Ray breathed, glancing back to where Otto and Reggie were successfully distracting Twister. "How did he manage that?"

"I don't know, but it's really bad. It probably didn't help that he was biking on that cough today. He was talking and laughing with us only a few hours ago, and now... now he's got a serious fever, and he can't stand up on his own. He was suffocating, Raymundo; his lips were blue from lack of oxygen."

Ray went still, and sought the nearest rock, so that he could sit down. He ran his hands over his face in worry, processing what Sam had just told him. "Suffocating," he repeated squeakily.

"It's common with this illness," Sam said quickly. "It does mean his case is really serious, but the medicine definitely helps."

"What about that stuff he coughed up?"

"That's normal, too, unfortunately. Pneumonia is an infection, and his lungs are working hard to clear his body of the invasion. I know I said he probably puked from passing out, but it's just as likely that it's another symptom of his illness."

Ray hid his face. "Sandy and Raoul are gonna kill me," he said flatly. "This is the second time he's gotten seriously injured or sick on a trip with us."

"Well, that's not really your fault, is it? Twist's an active guy, like all of us. And these things happen. Let's just count our lucky stars that he's alive and talking, y'know?"

At this, Ray reached out and squeezed Sam's shoulder. "You're a lot wiser than your years suggest, Mr. Dullard."

"Please. That's my dad's name, not mine. A wiser guy would have long ago avoided coming on this trip," Sam teased.

Ray smiled. "Alright, Socrates. Go join the others. And look after Twister. I'm gonna see if I can't help Tito get a signal."

Sam knew that this was code for 'leave the adults alone so they can talk', so he made his way back to the others, respecting the need for privacy in this matter. Reggie and Otto were still distracting Twister, but stopped once they saw Sam rejoin them.

"Where you been, Squid?" Twister asked. "You missed a cool story."

"Just taking a break," Sam replied, before he saw Twister narrow his eyes. "What?"

"I know I'm sick," Twister said solemnly. "You don't have to pretend like everything's okay. Raymundo is worried about me, huh?"

Sam met Otto and Reggie's eyes, once apiece, and very briefly. "Twister... sometimes, you're a little too perceptive for your own good."


	30. Chapter 29

The fingers that gripped the back of his neck were a familiar feeling by now, and Twister had learned to ignore the pain. Harder to ignore was the searing burn of rock salt on his knees, and the throbbing ache of his new gashes and bruises. He gritted his teeth, for he knew crying out would only make things worse. There would be time later to cry, on the bathroom floor or on his bed, but tears now were considered a sign of weakness.

Raoul was having difficulty holding his son in place tonight. He swayed like a tree, with three quarters of a bottle of straight tequila as the breeze that rocked him. He wept in silence, staring at the picture of his wife in his free hand. Feeling Twister tremble beneath his grip, he thrust the picture in front of his face.

"She's disappointed in you, Maurice," he slurred. "You see what you've done? You've upset your mother."

Twister said nothing, though the pain of looking at that picture was always greater than anything Raoul had ever done to him. Less than five months ago, he might have said something back; might have told his father that the only disappointment was how he'd fallen so far into the abyss of alcohol. He knew his mother had loved him, and never stopped believing in that, and he'd earned a belt to his back and bare ass a few times for saying so.

But it wasn't worth it anymore. The message never went through to Raoul, and the man grew steadily worse as the months progressed. Twister learned to walk on egg shells, and to fend for himself when he could, for there was no way to tell when the act of simply returning home from school would earn him a savage beating.

"Look at her," Raoul growled at him, pressing down on Twister, and forcing the rock salt deeper into his bleeding knees. "This was you. This was all _you_. If you hadn't been so stupid, she might be alive right now."

It was a pretty classic argument from him, and one that Twister had difficulty overcoming, because parts of it were true: Sandy had indeed died in a car accident on her way to pick him up from school detention. And he'd had detention because he'd failed to get a good grade in math. He did blame himself for her death, in part, but he still knew that Raoul blamed him more, and was determined to take everything out on him.

He found himself wishing Lars were still at home, because then at least they could suffer together. But Lars had left, not long after the accident, and hadn't looked back. Back when Twister still had phone privileges, he spoke to his brother, and tried to tell him of the way their father was deteriorating. Lars never wanted to hear it; it was all in Twister's mind, he'd said. He should be more grateful that he still had dad.

"Apologize," Raoul hissed at Twister.

"I'm sorry," Twister responded automatically, without inflection.

"Apologize _correctly!_ You will say it like you mean it!"

"I'm sorry," Twister said, with softer sincerity.

That was another trick he'd picked up in a tight spot: by contrasting the two versions of his daily apology, he made the sincere one sound more convincing. Before, when he'd been terrified, his increasingly hysterical apologies had only caused Raoul's anger to rise.

Of course, that was only when the man's anger was within a certain manageable range.

Twister felt the blow on the back of his head, and because he hadn't been expecting it, he went down quickly, stopping himself from falling in the salt only by landing on his palms. It didn't matter, regardless, because a kick to his ribs sent him the rest of the way down. Fear lurched in his gut; this attack was abnormal, and abnormal was always bad.

He scrambled to get up, knowing that if he continued to lie there, Raoul would likely beat twenty kinds of shit out of him. This was one of the few times where staying away from the house was the best option, even if it did mean that Raoul would whip him raw the next day; that option was better than being struck badly enough to require another hospitalization.

More hits rained down on him as he moved, and one sent him flying headlong into the hallway mirror, which shattered upon impact, and embedded a piece of glass into his temple. Half blinded by a torrent of fresh blood, he tried to make his way to the door from memory and instinct, limping as quickly as he could. He heard Raoul snarl, and felt a faint pull on his shirt, as Raoul narrowly missed grabbing him.

The door gave way under Twister's frantic tugging, and he was out and running as fast as he could, hissing as a particularly cool autumn breeze greeted his new injuries. Bare foot, battered, still bleeding, and frightened, he began bolting down the road. He needed to hide somewhere, fast, before people noticed and looked out – or before Raoul decided to give chase.

He wiped blood from his eyes, and risked a glance back, because he didn't hear his father yelling. He glimpsed Raoul then, still standing in the doorway, glowering that hateful scowl at his son. Twister looked away, and kept running, until he was halfway down the California Incline. He tried to slow down, to see if there wasn't some odd hedge he could lay low in, but as he looked around, he tripped, and flew several feet, before he hit the pavement, hard.

His head struck the ground, right on the piece of glass that was still in his temple, and for a moment, he heard only ringing, saw only white, and felt only agony. When it faded, he found himself sprawled on his side, gasping for breath, and now bleeding from several nasty grazes on his arms. His head hammered painfully, in time with his racing heartbeat, and he didn't have the strength to move more than a few inches. As he tried to raise his head, the throbbing got worse, and before he could so much as register the wave of nausea, he threw up, bile splashing out of his mouth and onto the pavement below. He choked and began retching, his whole body spasming, which only made his wounds ache, and caught him in a cycle of sickness and misery. More vomit came up, before his senses faded out.

When he came to, it was to a strange sound. He was disoriented for a moment, unsure why he was lying on a cold, hard surface, but when he heard the grind of car tires behind him, he jolted fully awake, panicked. He gasped as this action jarred his aching body, and willed himself to lay still, as he saw the flash of red and blue colored lights. That alone told him it wasn't his dad, drunk driving to come retrieve his wayward son.

It didn't ease his fears, however. He wanted so badly to get up and run; to hide somewhere the police wouldn't find him. His body simply wouldn't obey, and he could only watch the world from where he lay, and listen to the sound of a door opening and slamming in a hurry.

"Twister?! Twister, honey, are you alright?!"

Officer Shirley showed up in his field of view, and crouched beside him, her face drawn and pale. Her fingers flew to the pulse in his neck, and she grabbed at the radio on her belt with her free hand. Twister couldn't quite focus on what she said, but he figured she was calling for an ambulance.

"Help's on the way, honey. Can you talk?"

He tried – he really did. All that came out was a hoarse, indistinct rasp, and it drained more energy out of him. He swallowed, willing away his pain, and shut his eyes tiredly.

"Twister, you need to stay awake for me, okay? Help will be here soon, but you can't go to sleep. Do you hear me? It's important you _stay awake_."

Somehow, he knew she was right, and he forced himself to open his eyes again. The flashing lights didn't really help matters, tempting him into slumber with their hypnotizing rhythm, but Shirley called to him constantly, prompting him over and over to stay conscious. It wasn't long before the lights seemed to double, and the wail of a siren invaded his ears.

He was barely with it at that point. He saw people and shapes, and heard them talking to him, or to each other, but he couldn't respond anymore. He felt like he could hear someone crying, and as the medics lifted him onto a stretcher, he came to realize the tears and whimpering were coming from him. Someone with a familiar voice was hushing and soothing him, and a hand carded through his hair. He looked up, into the glare of the lights in the ambulance, but his vision wouldn't obey him. The shape was indistinct, but radiated a gentle, loving feeling that he hadn't known for a long time now.

"Mom?" he croaked. "Mama?"

"Shh. Hold on, Maurice. Just hold on. You're going to be okay."

For the first time in months, he believed that.

…

Reggie and Otto startled as a thud sounded from upstairs. They traded questioning glances, but before they could decipher what was going on, pounding footsteps sounded, and Ray came flying down the steps, taking them three at a time. He grabbed his jacket off the hook by the door, and was trying to cram his arms into it while also grabbing his keys. Noelani, alerted to the commotion, poked her head into the room.

"Ray? Where are you going?"

Ray didn't reply, and they all saw a look of desperate fright in his eyes. Reggie muted the TV, and she, Otto and Noelani all converged on him, sensing the seriousness of the situation.

"What's going on, dad?" Otto asked solemnly.

"Shirley found Twister lying on the side of the road. He... he's just been taken to the hospital."

They all went still and tense, dread filling them to their cores.

Secrets were not well-kept in Ocean Shores, and unofficially, the knowledge on the block was that Raoul Rodriguez abused his son. They all knew it; they had seen the signs, and been there with Twister that day, when he'd been admitted to the hospital with a punctured lung and a spiral fracture on his arm. They had opened their door to him on countless occasions, never questioning why he sought shelter for the night; his bruises and hunted look told them enough.

Services had been called; police involved. But every time an investigation was launched, Raoul and Twister both hid the evidence. His bruised face and marred lip were 'skateboarding accidents'. When he'd once fainted in class because of starvation and injury, it had been 'a bad case of the flu'. Clear belt marks on his back were the result of 'running into tree branches'.

His friends had tried to pry the truth out of him on several occasions now, but he'd clammed up, even when they had begged; even when their pleas brought silent tears to all four of them, he refused to discuss it. It was infuriating, and terrifying, but they could do nothing for him when he wouldn't acknowledge their concerns. Regardless of this, they stayed by his side, helping him up when he was hurt, and keeping him safe when he needed it.

Those times came with greater frequency as of late, and now, the time seemed to have come again.

"We're coming with you," Reggie said firmly.

"Reggie-"

"No, dad. He's our friend, and he needs us. He doesn't have anyone else."

Ray looked like he wanted to argue – but the look left him quickly, as he saw the determination in both his children. He glanced up at Noelani, too, and saw in her eyes that there was no fighting this battle. It was three against one.

"Get your shoes on, and grab your coats. I'm going to drop by Sam's place – if we're doing this, we might as well bring the whole gang."

They all sprung into action. Noelani followed Ray out of the house, and they both paused, looking over to the Rodriguez residence. The house itself stared back indifferently, with its worn paint and shaggy, neglected lawn accenting the deep and awful secrets within its windows. Raoul's car was in the driveway, parked askew, and the door was open.

Ray began walking towards the house, without really meaning to. Noelani caught his arm and pulled him back, shaking her head in warning. "Let Shirley deal with him."

"If it's anything like last time, he's just going to lie about it again," Ray growled. "I'm sick of this."

"Me, too. But starting a fight with him isn't going to solve anything, and it could make things worse for Twister."

That gave Ray cause to stop. Oh, part of him still wanted to head over there and give Raoul a piece of his mind, but he kept it in check, knowing Noelani was right: the fallout would inevitably hurt Twister if Shirley failed to find cause for Raoul's arrest.

As if summoned by the thought, a familiar police car appeared on the street. Its lights were flashing, but there was no siren. It eased to a stop in front of Ray and Noelani, and Officer Shirley peered out her window at them, looking grim.

"Thought I might see you out here still, Big Ray," Shirley said.

"We're on our way to the hospital," Ray replied tersely.

"That's good, but you should know that Violet is with him. She was out on one of her late-night power walks again. He's in good hands, for now."

The unspoken 'but' had them all looking back towards the Rodriguez residence.

"Shirley?" Noelani said suddenly.

"Yeah, honey, what is it?"

"Please tell me you have cause for arrest this time."

"We'll see."

She said no more, rolling up the window and easing her car into the driveway behind Raoul's car. They watched her step out and cautiously approach the house, and faintly heard her calling for Raoul. Behind Ray and Noelani, Reggie and Otto made their exit, then stopped to stare, as well. There was a long silence, before Shirley drew her sidearm and entered the open door.

"Get in the car, both of you," Ray ordered.

"But-"

"In the car. _Now_."

He'd hardly spoken the command before a wild, incoherent shout rang out across the street. The yell was answered with Shirley's stern voice, and the two mingled as one, escalating in severity, before a loud _CRACK_ resounded into the night, accompanied by a faint flash.

No one said a word, or moved a muscle; they dared not breathe, trying to process what they had just witnessed.

A collective breath was released then, as a familiar, blue-clad figure stepped out the door... with a disheveled, handcuffed and very much alive Raoul Rodriguez in tow. He was limping, and his pant leg carried a dark color, originating from a pinpoint. He was silent, glowering with red-rimmed eyes, and he resisted Shirley's hold. She was having none of it, and she brought him to the patrol car, before unceremoniously shoving him into the back.

They watched Shirley pull away with him, and as the car passed by, they saw Raoul leaning against the window, his eyes widening as he caught sight of them. He looked rabid, and began shouting, but whatever he said was lost, as Shirley gunned the engine, and switched the sirens on.

When they had gone, Noelani went straight to Otto and Reggie, and pulled them close, with an arm around their shoulders. They were almost as tall as she was in their teens, but on this day, they looked like the children she had first met, all those years ago in Hawaii. Ray watched them for a moment, his heartstrings tugging, but turned a moment later, jogged his way over to the Dullard residence, and remembered he would need to call Tito, too.

…

None of them knew what to expect when they were finally allowed to go in and see Twister, but there was nothing in the world that would have prepared them for the sight of him, lying there on the hospital bed.

He was a mess of bandages and tubes, with a hospital gown clinging to his thin frame. His head had been stitched, and a broad, white square bandage had been planted over the wound. Present, too, were remnants of blood on his face, because the swelling, purple-black bruises hadn't yet gone down enough to clean him without hurting him. His legs, arms and foot also bore white wrappings, some of which were already stained through with now-dried blood.

He was conscious, but a drip of morphine stole most of his sense, and he didn't appear to be truly aware that they were gathered with him. Doubt and fear radiated from him, and tears fell nonstop from his eyes, as he weakly looked around. He seemed to be searching for something – or some_one_ – and his distress remained constant, even when they called to him to try to soothe him.

Violet Stimpleton was there with the group, and her eyes were also far from dry. She hadn't moved a muscle when the rest of them had entered; in fact, she almost seemed afraid to. Tito and Ray tried to coax her to sit down, but she shook her head firmly.

"He may start up again," she told them in a whisper.

"Start up?" Noelani said, puzzled.

Violet looked utterly heartbroken, and haunted. "He... well, when I joined him in the ambulance, he was so confused, and he thought I was his mother, the poor thing. The nurses have only just calmed him down. He was _screaming _for her when we separated..."

Everyone paled at the thought, but Otto, Reggie and Sam felt the worst of it. They were the only people Twister had ever spoken to about his mom – and about his guilt. They moved closer to his bed, trying with their presence to drive away some of that terrible look in his eyes. He focused on them as they did, and after a moment, seemed to finally process who they were.

"Reg?" he tried, his voice weak and hoarse. "Ottoman... Squid... I'm sorry. I'm so sorry..."

"It's okay, Twister," Reggie said softly, smiling for him. "You have nothing to be sorry for, okay?"

"She's dead..."

"And that's _not_ your fault."

"Dad said it was my fault," Twister said distantly, frowning. "He said I have to apologize every day for her, because I killed her. I killed her!"

"No, Twist," Otto said firmly. "That's not true, at all. You didn't kill her, dude, and your dad is a dick for making you do that. And for... for hurting you."

Twister gained an anxious look. "Is he here?"

"No. Officer Shirley arrested him. You're safe now."

But Twister didn't look reassured. In fact, his fear increased, and presently, it became clear that he wasn't really connecting with what he was being told. "He's coming to run me over," he choked. "I... I... did I get up? I can't get up. He's going to kill me-"

"Shh, Twister. It's alright," Reggie soothed him. "You're safe. You're _safe_. You're in the hospital, here with us. We won't let anything bad happen to you, okay?"

"Where's mom?"

The trio exchanged mournful looks.

"She's not here, buddy," Sam said softly.

"But she was here!" Twister sobbed, shutting his eyes, and looking agonized. "She was here... she spoke to me... a-and I saw her-"

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Stimpleton sighed. "Oh, dear..."

"That was Mrs. Stimpleton, sweetie," Reggie told Twister, though her own voice was a little tight now. "Your mom... she's gone."

Twister responded with such a miserable, whimpering cry of anguish, that they all felt as if the sound had cast physical pain into their chests. He worked his jaw, as if trying to speak, but all that came was that terrible weeping.

It was then that a dreadful reality hit them: Twister hadn't gotten to mourn his mother's passing, not truly. Raoul had descended so quickly into drunkenness and violence, that all the boy had known since that time was blame, hatred, and abuse, from a figure who was supposed to love and protect him. He had been dragged down by his father's despair, and only now, free of the tyranny, was Twister finally allowed to feel that loss.

They wanted to hold him tight, to bring him out of that awful pit, but he was too badly injured, and they resorted instead to whispering to him; showing him they were there, and he was safe with them. Somehow, even in the depths of his sorrow, and the haze of drugs, he came to know that the people around him wouldn't beat him for crying; wouldn't call him names or shout in his face for calling for his mother; wouldn't stick his head underwater until he passed out, for daring to be human.

His exhaustion dragged him away to a troubled sleep, not long after he had spent his tears. Sitting beside him, Reggie – deprived of giving him verbal reassurances – reached out and stroked his hair, and smiled faintly as he leaned into the touch, even in sleep. Otto and Sam respected this; any other scenario, and they might have given her all kinds of shit for this emotional gesture. But this was not the place, or the time, for such ribbing among friends.

The adults withdrew, trusting the kids to look after Twister. Outside, in the corridor, safe from their eyes, Ray was the first to turn, and lean against the wall. He placed a palm over his face, hiding his eyes, and exhaled deeply, as lines of hurt showed on his cheeks. Noelani took his other hand, wrapping hers around it, and squeezing with all her might.

"We should have done more," Ray croaked. "_I_ should have done more for him. I should have taught him how to... how to mourn... I should have showed him he was loved-"

"You were _always_ there for him, bruddah," Tito challenged. "Whose house did he go to first, whenever he got away from that monster? Because it wasn't my house. It wasn't even little Sammy's house. It was _your_ house. He felt safe with you, and still does."

"And what kind of safety was I, Tito?! I let him go back home. I should have made him stay."

"But you couldn't. And that's no fault of yours. I seem to remember you telling me the phone bill was so high because of all the calls you made – to the school, to child services, to the police. You fought for him, and he knows that. And now, you don't have to fight anymore, because he's safe."

Ray drew in a shaky breath, and lowered his hand, fighting to collect himself. He looked at the ceiling. "He's like a son to me. Ever since he and the kids became friends... they drove me up the wall half the time, but I _love_ him, like my own. And seeing him like that... seeing him hurt, and _bawling_ for his mom..."

"You did good. You hear me, bruddah? You did good by him. That's the only thing that matters right now."

Ray breathed deeply once more. Then, to their surprise, he gave a halfhearted chuckle. "Not a single piece of wisdom from the Ancient Hawaiians from you today, Tito. I'm shocked."

Tito grunted. "By the time this is over, _I'm_ gonna be an Ancient Hawaiian," he paused, and looked to Violet and Noelani. "How are you two holding up?"

Noelani stayed silent, but shared a deep look with her cousin that told him all he needed to know. Violet allowed that moment to pass... and then burst into tears, and latched on to Tito. They all felt the same, but it was through her that they let themselves show it.

…

Twister was nervous as he set his bag on the ground, and looked around the place. He didn't know why it made him so apprehensive; he'd been inside this house a million-million times over, and was so welcome here that he hardly ever needed to knock anymore to be let in.

Yet, his heart was in his throat, and he worried, regardless. He chalked it up to the occasion: today was the day he was moving in.

Ray and Noelani had pulled every string, and moved heaven and earth to keep Twister out of the foster care system. Sure, the boy was seventeen, and would have aged out within a year, but the nearest facility was far from Ocean Shores, and there was no telling whether someone would adopt him in the meantime, and remove him altogether from the life and friends he was used to.

He'd had to spend a month there, anyway, while he waited for the paperwork, and it had been a tumultuous stay. The other kids in there were, like him, broken in various ways, and he'd discovered the tendency of the staff to lean towards neglect. The attitude was nowhere near as bad as what it had been like with his dad, but it was enough to give him nightmares every night, and enough that it shook the fragile foundations of safety he'd been able to establish after Raoul was finally arrested.

Now, staring at the old surfboard coffee table in the living room, he felt a familiar tremor go up his hand – another surprise feature he'd discovered in foster care – and realized he was afraid of everything going horribly wrong. What if Ray and Noelani got sick of him? What if Otto and Reggie left, the way Lars had done? Would they fall the way Raoul had fallen, and beat him for his failures?

A hand lightly rested on his shoulder, and he jumped so badly, he knocked into several picture frames on the walls. It was a miracle that none of them fell, but he cowered anyway, his whole body tensing for the strike, hand raised in defense.

"Whoa, easy, dude. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

Twister blinked, confused, and when he came out of his survival reaction, he saw Otto, watching him with no small degree of concern. He swallowed, trying to bring his panicked breathing back to normal.

"Easy, Twist," Otto went on, more gently. "I'm not gonna hit you. I'd never do that to you."

Slowly, Twister lowered his arm, even though every instinct screamed at him not to. "I-I'm sorry," he mumbled, looking away.

"Nah, I shouldn't have crept up on you like that. You okay?"

"Yeah... yeah, I think so."

"Alright. Come on, let's get your stuff upstairs. It's gonna be cool, I promise!"

Twister managed a smile, infected by Otto's enthusiasm. In fact, Rocket Boy had not shut up the entire ride back from the foster home to Ocean Shores, driving the Rockets and Sam insane. Twister hadn't minded it as much, sitting quietly in the back seat; it had been nice to see them all again, and he'd missed Otto's tendency to gush about the things that made him happy.

Things like having his lifetime best friend become his foster brother.

Unpacking his stuff was a simple affair, because most of what Twister had previously owned had been locked up in his old house. It was still a designated crime scene, all these ages later, and would be until his dad was brought to his final trial. The only things Twister currently had were some clothes, and the bag they came in.

He found his nerves had settled a little more by the time evening rolled around. Tito and Sam stayed on to have dinner with them, and they clustered around the table, while Noelani served out a spam skillet – simple, homely food, with that little bit of funny spirit that came with all Hawaii's spam dishes. To Twister, it looked heavenly, because for the past month, he'd been living on canned mac n cheese and frozen peas, or sometimes nothing at all, when the staff got lazy.

He was a little overwhelmed when all was said and done, and by the time he trudged back up to Otto's room for the night, he felt exhausted. He hoped that meant he'd be able to actually sleep through the night, though it wasn't a high hope.

Otto went digging in the closet, and reappeared with a set of boxers, which he handed to Twister. "Dad says he put a new toothbrush in the bathroom for you. It's green."

"My favorite color," Twister said, smiling.

"He almost got the pink one, but Reg stopped him in time."

Twister chuckled a little at the mental image of Reggie sternly lecturing Raymundo about a hot pink toothbrush, and Otto beamed, because it was the first time in awhile he'd actually heard Twister laugh.

They settled down for the night, with Twister on the temporary airbed, and Otto in his own bed. They chatted for awhile; mostly, Otto tried to ask him questions about what foster care had been like, but Twister wasn't particularly forthcoming, so the talk changed to sports. They'd go surfing tomorrow – something that Twister was looking forward to.

Sleep came easy at first, as it always did. He drifted away, comfortable under blankets that didn't scratch at his body. Some time well into the small hours, however, the dreams began. They came in disjointed flashes, before evolving into full nightmares. He ran from his dad down a narrow corridor, hearing the foreboding footsteps, and the slurring, hideous threats. His own feet carried him just a little too slowly, and eventually, Raoul caught him up.

The beatings began there – relentless, and as painful in the sleeping world as they had been in real life. Then, the corridor filled with water, and he was under it, being held by the throat, while his body screamed for air. Raoul lifted him up just as his world began to turn black... and it was no longer Raoul. Raymundo was holding him now, shaking him like a ragdoll, while his mother stood just behind him, weeping without a sound.

He called to her, but she turned away, and the water changed to fire. There was a cigarette in Ray's hand, and he threw Twister to the ground and kneeled on him, lifting his shirt to expose his bare chest. Twister begged and screamed, squirming to escape, but there was no mercy, and he was pinned, as the end of the cigarette met his skin and sizzled.

The world tilted violently then, and suddenly, he was standing in the bathroom at his house. He could feel someone behind him, breathing on the back of his neck, but he dared not turn. He had the urge to go, but when he reached to try to undo his pants, his hands were grabbed, and held behind his back. The phantom behind him hissed in his ear: _If you're going to act like an animal, Maurice, you'll be treated like an animal._

He pissed himself, out of terror and need, and the voice broke into hellish laughter that filled him with humiliation. He was forced to the ground, and a hand grabbed at his soaking crotch and dug vicious nails into him. He screamed again, only to be drowned out by the laughing. Above him, Raoul was back, his features twisted into eldritch shapes that sent terrible chills throughout his body.

Raoul held a brand now, and he lowered it toward Twister's neck, slowly, as if he took pleasure in delaying the torment. He began calling to his son, saying his name over and over, with increasing, frantic fear...

Twister woke with a terrible start, gasping and choking. He flailed in bed, lashing out desperately, for _someone_ was there, hovering over him. His fist connected with something, and there was a surprised yelp. Twister barely noticed it, as panic flooded his body. He backed away in the dark, until he hit a wall, and there he stayed, panting in hyperventilation, with tears running down his face.

A set of hurried footsteps was followed shortly with a sudden surge of light, and he shielded his eyes. He couldn't make sense of his surroundings, until he saw Otto, all the way on the other side of the room, staring at him and rubbing his jaw. At the doorway, Ray, Noelani and Reggie stood, also staring in. They looked frightened.

"Twister, buddy, you okay?" Ray asked hesitantly, hearing the boy's short breathing.

Twister didn't reply. He was dreadfully pale and soaked in cold sweat, and his eyes were full of that old fear, which worsened as Ray slowly approached him. Taking great care, Ray held up his hands to placate Twister, and came to a crouch after a moment, stopping to give the kid enough space. At this distance, he caught an unpleasant scent, and grimaced when he saw that Twister had wet himself, an obvious stain marking the front of his boxers.

"Okay," he whispered. "It's okay, Twister. You're okay – you're safe. Try to take some deep breaths, now. Nice and easy."

"Is he alright?" Noelani asked from the doorway, her voice similarly low and soft.

"Looks like he had a nightmare. Can you go get some towels, please, honey?"

Noelani didn't question; she simply backtracked down the hall, on task, and returned moments later with towels. She set them down on the floor, within Ray's reach, and drew Otto and Reggie out of the room after that. They, too, went without protest or question, leaving Ray alone with Twister.

"Hey," Ray called to him, reaching back for the towels, "It's alright. It was only a dream. I know you're scared, but you're safe here with me, okay?"

It took a moment, but the words seemed to gradually register with Twister, as he came the rest of the way out of his nightmare. Finally seeing Ray – as _Ray_, and not as the monster in his dream – he calmed, and looked down at himself. His face flushed with embarrassment when he saw his boxers, and he drew his knees up to himself, ashamed.

Ray closed the distance, and the moment he saw that it was alright to do so, he pulled Twister into a fierce hug. The boy stiffened, then relaxed into the touch and clung back, trembling.

"I-I'm sorry," he sniffled into Ray's shoulder, his voice uneven. "I-I didn't mean to..."

"No, hey, it's okay," Ray soothed, "It's not your fault, buddy. It's not your fault."

"I-I shoulda told you about... about the nightmares..."

"Well, I know now. You alright to get up and get in the shower?"

"Y-yeah, I... I think so. I'm sorry."

Ray suppressed a sigh. He absolutely _hated_ hearing the kid apologize constantly like that, but he knew Twister only did it out of strong habit; Raoul had only ever taught him that his entire existence had to be apologized for. With patient hands, Ray coaxed Twister to his feet, and let him go when he pulled away and headed for the bathroom. Ray laid out the towels on the soiled bed, and chastised himself when he felt a brief surge of annoyance at the mess. It really hadn't been the boy's fault, and he knew that it was a bad sign for a teenage boy Twister's age to have done so.

Downstairs, Noelani sat up with Reggie and Otto, and heard the shower running. She had a worried, distant look in her eyes, as she stared up those steps, until Reggie took her hand and squeezed it tightly.


	31. Chapter 30

"Hey, Lou. Take a look at this kid. Think I found you a little gift."

The fat thug with the ill-fitting ski mask sneered down at Twister, who looked back at him fearfully from where he remained on his knees. Nearby, the Rockets, Tito and Sam all grew tense, but could do nothing to draw attention away – not when there were guns pointed at them from several of the hostage-takers. All the hostages, like Twister, were kneeling, with their hands on their heads, and dared not make any sudden moves, for the robbers had already shot and killed the bank teller.

One of the men withdrew from his position near the window, wandering over with his weapon slung over his shoulder. He stopped in his tracks when the fat thug grabbed Twister by the back of the neck, and presented him to his colleague, and his lips curled into a snarl.

"Well, well," Lou hissed. "An invasive species. Good eye, Mal."

He sauntered up to Twister, looking down at the teen like he was examining some foul specimen. He unshouldered his weapon, and planted the barrel right between the boy's eyes.

"You a Mexican? I never seen a ginger Mexican," he grunted. "Some kind of mongrel, aren't you? That's disgusting. Cross-bred filth, you."

Twister shook from head to toe, staring cross-eyed at the gun in his face. He couldn't respond, and when the barrel moved and poked him sharply in the chest, he gave an involuntary bleat of terror, causing Mal and Lou to laugh.

"He's scared, alright," Mal commented. "You should be, you skinny prick. Lou here, he hates your kind. How many Mexicans have you killed, Lou?"

"Not enough. Maybe the little runt can join the teller. How about it, boy? You wanna help a good cause? Clean your scum off the face of the earth? Or do you no-speaky-English?"

"Guys, cut it out, would you?" one of the other armed men protested. "He's just a kid. Besides, Smitty will be back and second, and you know he don't tolerate your racist ass."

"Shut the fuck up! Nobody asked you," Lou snarled, before returning his attention to Twister, with a cruel grin spreading on his face. "Kids are the worst. Just means the spics are breeding, and nobody in their right mind wants that."

He swung back abruptly, raising the stock, and struck Twister in the gut. Twister grunted in agony and doubled over, wrapping his arms around his middle, but was given no time to recover, as the stock came down again, this time hitting him in the back, and sending him all the way down.

"Leave him alone!" Otto blurted, fearful for his friend.

"Nobody asked you, either. I don't even _know_ what you are – you look like you got Pacific redskin in you, like your fat friend there," Lou remarked. "I got no beef with Indians. Just this border-hopping piece of shit," he kicked at Twister, who curled up weakly on his side, "And if you know what's good for you, you're gonna stay quiet, or I'll fucking kill all of you."

Otto immediately fell still, but he, too, was shaking. They all were; they wanted nothing more than to help Twister, and to escape captivity, but the threats held them in place. Satisfied that he could toy with his quarry in peace, Lou leaned down and grabbed Twister by the ankles, to drag him across the floor. He was limp in this hold, still hurt from the strikes, and lay helpless, as Lou dropped him, laid him flat on his front, and lifted his shirt.

A welt was already forming on Twister's back, and as he felt his shirt go up, he tried to get up, only to be brought down again, as Lou planted a foot right on top of that horrible mark. Twister gritted his teeth in pain, while Lou stood casually, and reached into his pocket with one hand. Out came a worn pack of cigarettes, and he lit one, dragging slowly from it, until the end blazed.

He moved so that his knee was digging into the boy, and with a practiced motion, lowered the cigarette to Twister's exposed skin. He slowly ground the stub into the small of Twister's back, and Twister gasped and squirmed in pain.

"Lie still," Lou ordered quietly, resting the gun barrel on the back of Twister's head. "You take the pain, you little pussy. Teach you a lesson about coming over our borders."

He lit the cigarette again, and repeated the process of burning his victim, this time driving the stub into his side a little, and causing a violent shudder to wrack the boy's body. Over and over, Lou did this, until Twister began to howl, and the faint smell of burned flesh filled the air. His friends cringed in sympathetic agony, and Ray very nearly got himself killed, twitching with rage as Lou tortured Twister.

"God, will you shut him up?" Mal complained, over Twister's cries. "He's driving me crazy."

"It's better this way. I need to hear that he regrets what he is," Lou looked down at Twister. "Tell me, beaner. Do you regret being a fucking pestilence?"

He cast his now-spent cigarette stub and weapon aside, and moved so he had both knees on the boy's back. With barely-contained violence, he wrapped both hands around Twister's neck, silencing his cries in a strangle-hold. He held on tightly, against Twister's increasingly desperate struggles, and only let go when those struggles began to weaken. Twister drew a shuddering, choking breath, and fell into an awful, deep coughing fit.

"I don't think he's getting the message," Mal remarked, chuckling.

"No? Well, maybe we gotta show him something he'll understand. Gimme your knife a sec."

Mal reached for his belt, and unsheathed a massive Bowie knife, handing it over to Lou. Lou turned it in his hands a moment, admiring the blade – then got off Twister's back, and hauled the boy up, so that he was kneeling again. He made Twister face his friends, then grabbed him by the hair and forced his head back, bringing the blade to his neck.

"The cartels usually behead people with machetes," Lou remarked. "We don't have a machete, though, so maybe I'll give you the next best thing. You ever seen a beheading by knife, beaner? Nasty stuff. Once the blade gets about halfway through your neck, your body starts trying to breathe through the new hole, and the blood gives it a unique sound. But you won't be good and dead til your neck bones start to come apart."

Twister shut his eyes in terror, his breath coming hard and fast, while tears fell freely down his face. Lou pulled his hair harder, and the knife began biting into the skin of his neck, drawing blood that streamed down and soaked his shirt. Twister began sobbing, and his friends wept, too, their eyes wide with sick terror.

"Don't do this," Ray begged, his voice hoarse. "He's only seventeen! Please-"

Lou gave him a cold look. "Don't mourn him, brother. I'm sorry you'll have to witness it, because it ain't gonna be a pretty sight, but the world will be better without him and his kind-"

"Lou!"

"What is it now, Mal?" Lou snapped, annoyed at being interrupted.

"Smitty..."

For the first time in this whole affair, they glimpsed fear in Lou's eyes. With startling speed, he withdrew the knife from Twister's throat, and shoved him away, before he retrieved his gun off the floor. Looking pallid, he wheeled on the spot – and froze, as the only unmasked robber in the group approached, a stuffed backpack swinging in his hold.

Twister scrambled away from Lou the moment he was free, and so panicked was his escape that he slammed right into the counter, pressing himself against the hard wood, and cowering in a ball, with his arms clamped over his head. His sobbing was out of control, utterly heart-wrenching to hear, and he shook so badly now, he seemed almost on the verge of a seizure.

The man called Smitty watched this spectacle with a stony expression, tilting his head curiously. He crammed the backpack into Mal's startled arms, and brushed by Lou, approaching Twister. When he came too close, Twister shrunk further from him, bawling. Smitty stopped.

"The fuck did you do to him?" he demanded quietly.

Lou audibly gulped. "Nothing, man."

"Oh, 'nothing'? Look at him. There's piss all over the floor under him. A boy his age, messing his pants, and crying like this? He's scared out of his goddamn mind. You trying to tell me that's '_nothing?_'"

"He got out of line-"

"He's Hispanic, Lou. You think I'm stupid? You think the last ten times this happened, it was 'nothing?' You tortured him."

"No, Smitty, I didn't-"

Smitty turned, catching Lou in a hostile stare. "What did you do this time? No, wait, don't tell me: You put a knife on him, so you could scare him before you stuck your limp little dick in his ass."

"No, man! I just wanted to teach him a lesson-"

"He's a fucking TEENAGER!" Smitty roared, making every soul in the building jump in fright. "A _kid_. I told you to cut this shit out, and even now, you can't follow that simple rule. I trusted you to be able to do this, and I come back and find you torturing a fucking _kid_."

"I didn't rape him, I swear it! I was gonna... I mean, I wasn't gonna fuck him, or nothing, just the knife-"

Smitty responded by drawing a pistol from his belt, and firing it, directly into Lou's forehead. Lou dropped like a sack of potatoes, dead before he hit the floor. Outside, the police, having finally set their perimeter, began shouting. Smitty holstered his pistol once more, and cast his gaze over his remaining thugs.

"Time to go," he ordered. "Leave the hostages, and the bodies."

None of them objected or hesitated, following Smitty as he led them back into the heart of the bank. Where he planned to go from there was anyone's guess, but he'd been right to leave, because outside, Officer Shirley and the entire Ocean Shores and Ocean Bluffs police forces had geared up, ready to storm the building.

Otto was the first to move, dropping his hands and rising to run to Twister.

"Otto, don't move!" Ray bellowed. "Stay exactly where you are! The police may fire at you if you don't."

That gave Otto pause, but didn't stop him. He crossed the remaining space to reach his friend, desperate to help. He'd almost watched Twister _die_, and now, he was hearing sounds of distress he'd never thought his best bro was even capable of producing. The risk, as far as he was concerned, was worth it, and he came to a halt near Twister, reaching out for him.

Twister saw him, alright, but whatever terror had possessed him didn't allow him to see that it was Otto who approached. As he'd done with Lou and Smitty, he cowered from Otto, too, and began begging incoherently, in a string of panicked English and Spanish. His eyes were bloodshot and filled with little else but fright, and Otto withdrew his hand in shock.

He didn't get time to process this, because in the next instant, the doors to the bank burst open, and the police flooded in, bellowing commands, with weapons raised. Twister went still and quiet, very suddenly, and watched their approach with wide eyes. As a pair of officers split off, and headed towards them, he gave a moan of dread, then slumped down with a sigh, his eyes rolling back as he fainted. Otto caught him and eased him to the ground, alarmed, but found hands had taken him by the shoulders, and were dragging him away from his friend.

…

"Whoa. Hell of a scar, dude. What happened, someone try to cut your throat?"

The comment had been light, the tone joking and playful. Twister knew the surfer had meant no harm or disrespect, but he couldn't control his body's reaction. He turned pale and tense, stopping in his tracks, and the warm summer air did nothing to prevent chills from sweeping through his body. He swallowed hard, trying to focus on breathing.

His friends stopped with him, but by then, he was already turning away. The surfer frowned, puzzled by his response. "Where you going, man?"

Otto and Sam cast him death glares in response, but Reggie jogged after Twister, who had already retreated a good way down the beach. She didn't try to stop him, but she did guide him, eventually directing him to set his board down and sit down on the edge of the water. He didn't look at her, but she set a comforting arm around him, and he seemed to accept this.

"I'm sorry," the surfer said sheepishly, staring at them. "Didn't meant to upset your buddy... I just wanted to know where he got the scar from. It looks wicked awesome."

"Well, it's not wicked awesome," Otto snapped.

Sam, on the other hand, saw the stranger's genuine and apologetic confusion, and sighed away his ire. "The problem is, that's exactly what happened," he explained. "Someone tried to kill him."

"Wait, what? For real?" the surfer said, awed. "Holy shit... I only meant it as a joke, guys, I'm so sorry. Is he alright?"

"No thanks to you, no," Otto growled, hauling up his board and making his way over to Twister and Reggie.

Sam winced. "Sorry. We know you didn't mean anything by it, it's just... it was a very traumatic experience for him, and for us, as well."

"No need to explain, my dude. Tell him I'm real sorry. I'd tell him myself, but looks like he doesn't wanna talk right now."

The surfer turned and left, and Sam watched him go a moment, before he joined his friends. Otto and Reggie sat with Twister between them, and Sam, not wanting to be left on the end, ignored the feeling of lapping waves against his legs, as he sat down in the water at a slight angle.

For a long time, none of them said a word. Twister stared at nothing, kneading his fingers anxiously, and the other three teens waited patiently with him, content to stand by and support him.

"He tried to kill me," Twister mumbled.

"Yeah," Reggie replied sadly. "But he didn't get to, and you're still alive, and safe."


	32. Chapter 31

"Otto, this is a _really _bad idea," Reggie said crossly.

Otto rolled his eyes. "It'll be fine! Besides, it's something different! When are we gonna get the chance to ever do this kind of thing again?"

"Um, never. Because you're not responsible enough to even be _around_ a gun, let alone hold one!"

"It'll be alright, Reg," Twister reassured, with an easy smile. "Lars will be there, remember? It's his gun."

"Somehow, that's not reassuring, though I can't think why," Sam muttered.

"Come on, Squid. He promised he'd show us."

"Twister, I understand your enthusiasm – not to mention your ridiculous sense of masculinity – but I think I'm gonna sit this one out. And I think you should, too."

"Likewise," Reggie added, folding her arms, and glaring at Otto.

"Whatever!" Otto snapped. "Come on, Twist. Let's leave the lame-os behind. Just means more firing for us, right?"

"Uh... right," Twister agreed, though he looked doubtfully back at Sam and Reggie, as Otto dragged him over to their bikes. He smiled again, in that lost and confused way he usually did, and Reggie and Sam both felt their worry spike tenfold.

"I don't like this," Reggie muttered, as they rode off towards the mountain trail. "I _really_ don't like this..."

Sam hummed. "Maybe we should tell Raymundo."

"Yeah, but then those two clowns would get into a bucket of trouble... though... ugh, I don't know. A _gun?_" Reggie sighed, exasperated. "I wish Lars could have just kept his mouth shut. It was suspicious enough that he _invited_ us to come fire it."

Sam gulped. "You don't think he'd... he'd fire it at Twister and Otto, do you? I mean, he never likes to show it, but we know he loves Twister, and wouldn't want to see him come to actual harm."

"That doesn't account for accidents..."

They looked at each other, coming to the same conclusion: Regardless of how much trouble it would get their friends in, and how much potential anger they'd get in response, they had to tell Ray and Noelani. Coming to a silent decision, they raced together, back towards the Rocket household, and practically threw the door off its hinges upon entry.

…

Otto and Twister arrived at the dump, skidding to a halt on their bikes and dismounting as they spotted Lars and his crew. Animal, Pi and Sputz were all eagerly looking over Lars' new gift, bought for him by his overenthusiastic uncle: a rifle. Lars looked beyond proud to be showing it off to his friends, and when he turned to see the two younger teens, that pride switched to smugness.

"Hey, losers. Where's the rest of your little kiddie team?"

"They chickened out," Otto replied, eyeing the rifle curiously. "That it?"

"No, it's just a prop," Lars deadpanned. "Of course this is it! You ready, or what? We're gonna fire first, and then maybe – _maybe_ – you dweebs will get a turn."

"Lars, you promised!" Twister complained. "You said you'd let me fire it right after you."

"I changed my mind. And if you keep bitching about it, you won't get a turn at all. Now come on!"

Lars led the way, carrying his rifle the way he imagined a soldier might. The group picked their way along the border fence of the dump, then veered off into the woods a little, picking up cans and bottles as they went. Once they reached a suitable clearing, Pi and Animal set up a shooting range, while Sputz dug in his pack for several boxes of ammo.

The older boys took turns firing, cheering when they hit targets, and ragging on each other for every miss. Otto and Twister sat on tree stumps, watching with genuine interest. Within a few minutes, however, they both began to grow bored and restless; they had come here to fire, not to watch.

"Lars!" Twister whined. "Can we have a turn now?"

Lars fired off another round, and at first, it seemed like he was ignoring Twister. After a second shot, and a similar complaint from Otto, he looked to the sky as if suffering for the heavens, and set the rifle down, beckoning. Twister and Otto were up in seconds, eagerly rushing over to get a good look, at long last. Otto immediately snatched it up, only to have Lars take it back with a scowl.

"Ground rules, dorks!" he snapped. "Don't fucking point it at anything you're not willing to shoot. Keep your finger off the trigger when you're not shooting. And don't fool around."

"Yeah, yeah, give it over," Otto said impatiently, grabbing the rifle back.

He stood the way he'd seen Lars and the others standing, and aimed down the range. Lars kept close by, arms folded, and watched Otto with an unusual amount of caution, while Pi, Animal and Sputz stared on, smirking at how out of place Otto seemed to be with the rifle.

"Go for it, dude!" Twister said, impatient.

Otto fired... and had to put all his strength into keeping the rifle in his hands, as the kick sent the barrel skywards. The bullet smacked into a tree, and Lars and his crew all burst into hysterical laughter. Otto scowled at them, then fiddled with the bolt, clumsily clearing the casing and putting a new bullet in. The second time around, he braced more carefully, hoping to prevent the kick. He didn't send the barrel too far up this time around, but he still missed.

"Dammit!" he stormed.

"Can I try?" Twister bugged him.

"In a minute, dude, I wanna hit one!"

Sullen and annoyed, Twister backed off, then cheered as Otto finally hit one of the bottles, and shattered it cleanly. Lars' crew stopped laughing, and Lars, satisfied that Otto would be fine, turned to his friends and started recapping their own hits of the day.

Otto was focused now, and he didn't want to stop. He hit every mark he aimed at after that, and with those shots, his thrill increased. Twister was infected by it, too, for awhile, but his requests to try were repeatedly denied, and he grew more and more bored. He almost returned to the stump to sit down, wondering if it was really worth coming out today, when he spotted some of the casings on the ground. In his mind, they would make cool parts for a necklace or something, so he began collecting them, thinking only of how neat it would be to make a souvenir for Reggie and Sam. In the process, he lost both his ire and his focus on the area.

Otto didn't realize Twister had wandered onto the range, until just as he was squeezing the trigger. He shouted in alarm and surprise, and Twister stood up, startled. The rifle gave a crack as the shot went off, and Otto blinked, then nearly threw the rifle down.

"Dude!" he snarled, "I almost shot you! Holy shit, Twister, get off the range!"

Lars, hearing this, wheeled right around, his face utterly white. When he saw where Twister still stood, he gained a look of mortal terror, before it turned to anger. "MAURICE! Que mierda estas haciendo?! Get OFF the range!"

Twister seemed frozen in place, still clutching some of the casings he'd collected. He looked down curiously, opening his palm to see if he still had the ones he wanted. Lars, frustrated with him for not listening, marched over, ready to haul him out of the line of fire so he could yell at him, and possibly beat three kinds of hell out of him for his stupidity.

Otto was the first to see it.

The rifle clattered out of his hands, and he went as pallid as Lars had been a few moments ago. He saw Twister hesitantly grab at the hem of his shirt, where a thin, growing line of darkness, and a small but noticeable hole, occupied his middle. Twister looked back up to Otto in confusion.

"Ottoman? I think... I think I got shot," he blurted.

He took a couple of steps, staggered... then collapsed.

Lars and Twister both broke into a run then, and collided with each other in their attempts to reach Twister. Recovering and scrambling, they fell to their knees beside him, where he lay on his side, frowning and clasping his hand around the wound. There was already blood welling up between his fingers, and his shirt began to soak.

"Move your hand," Otto babbled, "Dude, move your hand, let us see!"

"No!" Lars shoved him away, and planted his hand firmly over Twister's, pressing down, and causing his brother to give a mewl of pain. "Keep pressure on it. Sputz, dude! Call 911, okay?!"

Lars' friends were stuck in place, gawking, and none of them made a move to reach for their cell phones. Otto pulled his out instead, and found his hands shook as he dialed. Keeping the phone to his ear, he listened intently... and found only a beep in response.

"It's not picking up signal!" he reported, his voice rising. "It's not picking up... oh, god, Lars, it's not picking up-"

"Keep your head, dork," Lars growled. "Gimme your shirt."

Otto stared. "Why do you-"

"Shirt. _Now_. And keep trying to call."

Almost robotically, Otto obeyed, removing his shirt and handing it to Lars. While Otto began trying to dial again, Lars twisted the shirt with one hand, narrowed his eyes in focus, and quickly moved his and his brother's hands away from the bullet wound, to press the shirt over the injury. Twister cried out louder this time.

"Lars?" he said, his voice shaking almost as much as he was.

"Easy. You're gonna be okay, just keep still."

"Am I gonna die?"

"No, you're not gonna die."

"It doesn't even hurt until you press on it," Twister mumbled.

Lars looked at him, seeing how much color had drained from the boy's cheeks already, and how his eyes seemed a little glazed over. "Twister. If you feel like sleeping, you can't. _Don't_ go to sleep."

"But I'm tired..."

"I... I know," Lars swallowed the fear that came from hearing this. "I know. But you can't sleep, man. If you go to sleep, I don't know if you'll wake up."

"You said I wasn't gonna die..."

"And you _won't_," Lars snarled at him. "Not if you stay awake. Okay? Stay _awake_."

He looked back to Otto, praying he'd hear the sweet sound of him talking to a dispatcher. Otto shook his head, and pulled the phone away, to dial yet again.

"There's nothing," he choked. "I can't raise anyone-"

He was interrupted by a wild – and, as usual, completely unintelligible – cry from Sputz. Both he and Lars stared, but Lars, having spent more time with Sputz, soon understood what he was trying to say. His eyes filled with hope, and he looked to where Sputz was pointing.

There was a sound of revving engines, and a quad bike burst forth from the trees, followed by a second bike not far behind. Both were mounted by police officers, and as they rolled closer, the boys saw that it was Officer Shirley. She and her partner stopped, took one glance at the scene, and dismounted, racing over to Twister.

"He's been shot," Otto reported. "I... it was an accident. He walked onto the range, and I... I fired."

"Bobby, radio in to the med unit at the ranger station," Shirley ordered.

She backtracked to the quads, and removed a mobile first aid kit. Moving with speed none of them knew was possible, she was at Twister's side, ripping open the kit and donning gloves. She tore open an odd packet, and Lars, upon recognizing what it was, braced himself to get the shirt out of the way, and grabbed some of the gauze padding.

"When I say lift, lift," Shirley ordered. "The moment it's on, you keep the pressure up. Ready?"

"Yeah."

"Lift!"

Twister gave a moan of agony as a clotting agent was applied to his wound, and shuddered as Lars reapplied the pressure not a moment afterward. His breathing rate was beginning to increase dramatically, and his shivering had also worsened, while he struggled to keep his eyes open.

"He's going into shock," Lars said quietly, his voice tense, and his eyes locked on his brother.

"Talk to him. Keep him focused and calm. Otto, honey, there are some blankets in the compartment of the four-wheeler. I need you to bring them over, as fast as you can."

Otto obeyed – anything he could do to help his friend, he would. When he returned with three sets of wool blankets, he was scared by how pale Twister looked, and by the amount of blood all over him. Even more unsettling was the way Lars was talking to him. Lars – the bane of the gang's existence, and a violent, generally rude individual – was speaking in soft, hushed tones to his little brother, and kept his hands on the boy's shoulders, squeezing every time Twister tried to close his eyes.

By the time a team of EMTs arrived, the boy was barely conscious. With Lars and Shirley's help, his bleeding had slowed, but he was almost unresponsive as he was lifted onto a special stretcher, designed for outdoor terrain. Lars and Otto withdrew with Pi, Animal and Sputz, watching in solemn silence as the teams carried Twister to the off-road ambulance. Shirley sent her partner with the medics, and stayed behind with the boys, to begin a series of seemingly endless questions.

…

Reggie opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She tried once more, failed to find the words, and sighed instead. A million forms of 'I told you so' were spinning around in her mind, but she didn't have the heart to try it. Not here; not now, when Otto looked so despondent, sitting and tapping his foot in a nervous rhythm, while they all waited in the hospital for news of Twister's surgery.

Raymundo paced in front of them relentlessly. He had long ago yelled at Otto, and at Lars and his friends, when Officer Shirley had first returned them home. Then Raoul and Sandy had appeared, and the shouts began anew. There were threats; questions; promises of punishment. Tears abounded, mostly from Sandy, but also from Otto. And then, when all had been established, everyone rushed off to the hospital.

That had been hours ago, and still, there was no word on how Twister was doing. Raoul, too, was pacing, and the two men occasionally got in each other's way. They weren't exactly hostile, for much of the blame was shared between Otto, Lars and Twister. But some animosity remained, for the simple fact that Otto had been the one to fire the gun that had injured Raoul's son. Sandy was not nearly as vehement about this, and she sat fretfully, with Noelani grasping her hand for support.

It would work out, somehow. The families had been close for far too long to come apart now.

Sam, having finished texting his mother and Tito for the umpteenth time, pocketed his phone with a worn sigh, and followed Reggie's gaze, to Otto.

"Did you tell him, 'I told you so' yet?" he asked quietly.

Reggie shook her head. "He already regrets it. And I'm pretty sure Twister will too... if he ever even recovers."

Sam frowned. "Gotta stay positive, Reg. Twist's a tough guy... that, and I think he'd completely exasperate people in the afterlife so much, that they'd send him back."

Reggie managed a small smile at this, though it faded quickly. "He's not stupid."

"I'm... not entirely sure I'm in a position to comment on that."

"I mean it, Sammy. He's not. He's just... not all there sometimes."

"He's innocent," Sam said, after a thoughtful pause, "And completely naive. But you're right. He's on a different frequency from the rest of us, and maybe sometimes that makes him say and do some... _profoundly_ stupid things. Until it turns out he was just looking at it from a _way_ different angle. Otto said he was carrying bullet casings with him when he... when he walked onto the range. I wonder what he wanted them for?"

Reggie rubbed her forehead tiredly. "If he was doing that to try to use them as more ammo, I'm going to slap him."

"A second ago, you were trying to convince _me_ he isn't stupid," Sam teased gently. "Though, technically, there could be validity to his thinking. You can often reuse brass cartridges. Except they'd have to be melted down first, and then cast into the correct caliber with presses and dies, and _that_ takes some pretty specialized equipment..." he trailed off, noticing Reggie wasn't listening anymore. "Sorry."


	33. Chapter 32

The sound of an odd gurgling brought Twister out of his mental wanderings. He stopped on the trail, frowning, as he tried to draw a sip of water through the tube of the water bladder on his back. The same noise followed, and he sighed, dismounting his bike and setting it up against the nearest tree. He took off his pack, then began digging around in one of the saddle bags on the bike, seeking his spare canteen.

The others had ridden ahead some hours ago, to catch up with Ray and Tito at their campsite. Both men had left yesterday, deciding that they were tired of being left behind, and wanted the teens to catch up to them for once. That night, the gang had slept on their own for the first time in the entire trip – although 'sleeping' was a strong word for the ghost stories and silly games they ended up playing well into the small hours.

Twister had started off with the group in the morning, and had been doing fine – until a wayward rock punctured his tire. He'd halted to repair it, and told the others he would catch up with them later. While the repair had only taken half an hour, he'd ridden hard and still hadn't seen sign of his friends. With the way the trail was, though, he wasn't particularly surprised. It was both a fun and difficult ride, with many twists and turns along the way.

He shook his head to himself, trying not to get caught up daydreaming again. He frowned once more as he kept digging in the saddle bag, without finding the canteen.

"Dammit," he muttered to himself.

He checked every pouch he owned, thinking he'd perhaps packed it in the wrong place. After several thorough searches, however, he found nothing, and concluded he'd either dropped it on the trail somewhere, or left it back at their last campsite. He knew he was a long way away from either camp, and it worried him. He'd have to catch up to Sam, because Sam was the one carrying the water pump.

Climbing back onto his bike, he took off at double the pace, panting hard on the hills, and very nearly flying off the edge of the trail at several points. He kept his eyes and ears open, hoping for signs of his friends, but all that met him over the next few hours were the winds in the trees, and the grinding of his wheels on the trail.

He kept drawing from his water reserve, trying to suck up the last drops, but eventually, even this ran dry, and his fears increased. He knew he could get to camp, with effort, but by the time he got there, he'd be badly dehydrated. He scowled up at the sun, willing it to go away and stop baking him in his own skin, then pushed on, trying to ignore his dry throat.

…

Ray and Tito sat up from their relaxed position by the lake, both squinting back towards the trail, as they heard the familiar sound of whooping and laughter. Not long afterward, three bikes came flying into the camp zone, skidding to a halt, and raising a cloud of dust.

"Hey dad, hey Tito!" Otto greeted cheerfully. "Awesome riding, huh?"

Ray waved a hand to clear out the dust. "Something like that. Tito and I did... fine. Where's Twister?"

"He busted a tire on the way over," Reggie reported, frowning as she looked back. "Haven't seen him yet, he said he'd be right behind us."

Ray looked uneasy. "You guys left him behind? Despite the talk we had?"

"Relax, dad," Otto said. "He'll be fine. It's Twister! He's probably just spacing out a bunch and going slow."

"Well, so long as he has the water pump-"

"Actually... I have it," Sam piped up, a little sheepishly. "We traded this morning. He has the pots now."

"Now, lemme see if I'm hearing correctly, little cuzes," Tito said, folding his arms. "You left Twister back on the trail, on his own, with a flat tire and no way to fill up his water?"

"He does have that hydration pack," Reggie said, though she sounded hesitant. "But he shouldn't be far behind, anyway."

Tito and Ray exchanged looks, debating silently, while the teens all began looking back along the trail, praying for a glimpse of their friend.

"Alright," Ray said decisively, "If he's not here in another half-hour, two of you are going back to find him. _With_ the water pump."

"Not it," Sam said immediately. "You guys are faster, anyway."

"Squid! You're the one carrying the pump!" Otto protested.

While they bickered over who would go, Ray and Tito surreptitiously divided themselves from the kids, looking like they were busy with camp maintenance.

"I don't like it, Tito," Ray muttered. "How many miles was it between camps again?"

"About 45, but that was some rough terrain. Can't imagine it in the sunlight..."

"I don't like it," Ray repeated.

"Neither do I, bruddah, but Twister's young and strong, unlike a couple of people I know."

"Hey, speak for yourself."

The teens, having elected to Sam's original proposition, began setting aside camping gear from their packs and bags, while Ray and Tito watched the trail. Around twenty minutes had passed, and Ray was starting to get antsy, when, quite suddenly, there was movement up on the ridge section of the trail.

"Oh, thank god! I see him!" Ray cried, before he frowned, seeing that this figure was moving far too slowly to be biking. "Tito, you got those binoculars?"

Tito was already digging them out, and he brought them to his eyes, trying to focus on the ridge. "It's him, alright. Dismounted," he reported, as the three teens gathered around to peer at the trail with them. "He's moving pretty slowly... looks like he's using the bike for support."

"Otto. Reggie," Ray said quietly, "Go. Forget the pump, just get him down here, now."

The siblings raced for their bikes, hopping on expertly and zipping up the trail, towards their friend. Tito was still watching the ridge, following Twister's path, and occasionally switching to view Reggie and Otto. When he returned from one of these switches, he gasped, and set the binoculars down, before he rushed to his gear.

"What? What is it?" Ray and Sam both asked.

"He collapsed," Tito reported, his voice unusually clipped.

"_Collapsed?!_" Ray shrieked, grabbing the binoculars.

When he finally found Twister's location, he shared that same gasp, and went tense. "Oh, no... no, come on, Twister. Get up. Get up, get up..."

"Is he okay?" Sam squeaked nervously.

"Reg and Otto just got to him... they're helping him up... oh, shit. Shit."

"Raymundo," Sam said firmly, "Please tell me what's going on."

Ray lowered the binoculars, handing them to Sam, before he joined Tito. "He's unconscious. Shit... goddammit!"

"Easy, bruddah," Tito said, "They're bringing him back as fast as they can."

Both Ray and Tito raced around like mad hens, dragging Tito's sleeping bag and pad over to the shade of a tree. While Ray removed their camping towels and trotted down to the lake, Tito gathered canteens, and began filling one with sports drink powder. Sam, having grown fed up watching Reggie and Otto escort Twister down the trail on foot, set the binoculars aside, and began racing up the path, as fast as he could run.

He came up on them not far from camp. They had Twister between them, and were practically carrying him between them, with his feet dragging along in the dust. He was limp in their hold, and though he seemed to be conscious now, it was clear he was suffering. His lips were cracked and dry, and he couldn't hold his own head up for very long.

"They've set up a sleeping bag under the tree," Sam reported, as he met them. "Ray and Tito have water and stuff all good to go. I'm gonna get the bikes."

Reggie and Otto nodded in response, saving their breath. Both of them were clearly afraid for Twister, and they quickened their pace as the camp came into view.

"Hang on, Twister," Reggie panted, "We're almost there. Just hang on."

"Reg?" Twister slurred. "I'm thirsty. I'm really thirsty, please..."

"I know, sweetie, just hang on a little while longer."

"Please, Reggie... I'm really thirsty."

He continued to beg desperately, even as they brought him into camp, and lowered him down to the sleeping bag. Tito was quick to respond, sitting at his back and giving him something to lean on, while he brought an open canteen around to the boy's lips.

"Here we go, little cuz," Tito said softly, "I'm gonna help you drink, okay?"

While Tito poured small, even sips into the boy's mouth, Ray returned from the lake, carrying dripping towels. Reggie and Otto backed away a little as he practically ran them down, and he and Tito removed Twister's shirt, and began wrapping the towels around his body, to cool him off a little. Twister squirmed against this treatment, reaching weakly for the canteen, and trying to pry it from Tito's hands. Tito obliged him by bringing the canteen back to his lips, but Twister tried to tilt it further, desperate for a drink.

"No, no, no, Twister, you have to go slowly," Tito told him. "If you go too fast, you're gonna bring it back up again."

Twister either ignored him, or didn't register the command, and kept trying to fight, until Ray took his hands and held him down, so Tito could keep giving him small sips. The boy began to cry, although there were few tears, thanks to his dehydration. It was terrible to watch, and Ray felt awful, having to hold Twister down like this, but it was an absolute necessity.

This torment seemed to go on forever, with Twister gradually getting less combative, and Tito occasionally switching to giving him the sports drink. Reggie and Otto sat nearby, still afraid for their friend, and unwilling now to leave his side.

Eventually, Twister turned his head from the canteen, signaling he needed to rest. Tito set the canteen aside, within easy reach, and Ray finally let go of Twister's arms, seeing a little more lucidity in him.


	34. Chapter 33

"Hey. HEY!"

The presence of a new, enraged voice distracted Gary Stoat and his friends. Together, they looked up, towards the source of their interrupted spree, leaving their victim gasping on the ground. Twister Rodriguez barely knew his surroundings anymore; his whole body felt terribly battered, and now his neck, throat and chest ached, from where his attackers had been gleefully beating him and choking him out.

Above him, Gary and the others quickly lost their confusion, glaring as two familiar figures came sprinting in their direction. Otto and Reggie Rocket moved in tandem, with surety and swiftness, and didn't slow until they had reached the group. Several of the boys immediately broke ranks and fled, but Gary and three of his companions held their positions.

The Rocket siblings halted, barely a foot away from the other group, looking ready for a fight.

"What do you want, skater trash?" Gary sneered. "Can't you see we're busy?" He kicked at Twister, eliciting a pained groan from the boy. It only served to incense the pair.

"Leave him alone, Stoat!" Otto snapped. "What kind of coward are you, anyway? Ganging up on one dude like this? What, were you afraid you'd get your asses kicked?"

"By him?" Gary snorted. "Please. He couldn't hit a fly without thinking it was some kind of _demon_. He probably thinks we're his friends, the stupid fuck. What's it to you, anyway? You don't even know him – nobody does. Just move on."

"We're not going anywhere," Reggie said evenly. "Leave, Stoat. _Now_. You've got ten seconds."

Something about Reggie's stance and calm fury gave Gary cause to hesitate. Certainly, she and Otto were outnumbered, but what they lacked in numbers, they made up for with determination and ferocity. That, and Gary and his crew weren't exactly in the best shape, whereas Otto and Reggie were renowned athletes.

Masking his fear with another sneer, Gary held up his hands in mock-defeat. "Calm down, _Regina_. We'll leave the cuckoo fag in your care. Don't forget to cuddle his boo-boos, or else he might cry!"

Before either sibling could react, Gary and his friends made a run for it, though one paused to give Twister another kick, this time striking him in the head. Otto responded with a charge, chasing the boys all the way down the hall. Reggie didn't bother to stop him, knowing he was only doing so to scare them off. Instead, she crouched by Twister, letting her battle-ready expression drop away, as she saw the severity of his bruises.

He was unconscious from the last strike, and he shook unnaturally, his body attempting to recover him from the blow. Reggie's fingers flew to the pulse in his wrist, and she minded his breathing carefully, grimacing as she caught a slight wheeze in his exhale. It was little wonder; his neck looked like a battlefield of marks, and Reggie had to take a moment to calm herself, as she recognized finger patterns. She didn't get time to stew over it, however; the boy was coming to, blinking as he groggily awoke.

"Hey, can you hear me?" Reggie called. "Take it easy. You're hurt, but I'm going to help you, alright?"

He stared up at her in confusion, not quite able to focus yet. When she moved a hand back and forth in front of his face, he flinched, obviously expecting to be struck. Her heart ached at this response, and she lowered her hand quickly.

"Can you tell me your name?" she asked, trying to ease his fears. "Mine's Reggie."

He frowned. "L-like Regina?" he said, slurring a little. "Th-that's pretty. I'm... I'm Twister."

"Twister? That's an interesting name."

"S-sorry, I mean... I mean Maurice. B-but I don't like my name. My uncle calls me Maurice, though... will you call me Twister? I don't think you're like my uncle."

"Okay, Twister. Do you think you can move? I want to try to get you to the nurse's office."

He looked scared by the suggestion. "D-don't take me there. Please."

"Why not? You're hurt pretty badly here. It would be good if someone took a look, just to see if you're alright."

"They'll call my uncle," Twister mumbled. "H-he won't like it. I don't wanna choose the sticks again."

Reggie puzzled over this, wondering if he was, perhaps, a little delirious from his head wound. Before she could muster a response, Otto returned, panting more with adrenaline than exertion. He eyed Twister, who blinked up at him, staring curiously.

"You're Otto," he said in wonder. "You do skateboarding. And surfing. I like surfing. I wanna be a diver, though."

"He got hit pretty hard," Reggie explained to a bemused Otto.

"Okay, so we take him to a nurse-"

"No!" Twister groaned. "Please don't. Uncle won't like it. I don't like choosing the sticks, but he makes me pick every time I get in trouble at school. It hurts."

Otto still looked lost, but Reggie felt a tug of warning at the back of her mind. "What are the sticks, Twister?" she asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

"Sticks," Twister stated. "They hurt. He says they're supposed to, so I learn not to do bad things, but I don't like that learning. I wish the animals would take him away, so I don't have to choose."

"Does he hit you with them?" Reggie pried.

Twister looked at her suspiciously. "You're not supposed to know that. It's secret. Did you read my thoughts?"

Reggie grimaced. "No. You told me yourself."

"I did? No... I think you're not telling the truth," Twister said firmly. "But that's okay. Sometimes people don't tell the truth. And you're a nice person, I think," he paused, seeming to think of something, "Are you gonna tell on me? I don't wanna get in trouble. I don't wanna talk to nurses."

Sighing heavily, Reggie came to a quick decision, realizing having a conversation with the boy was a little like talking to a confused child. "Look. If you're afraid to go... then we won't take you to the nurse. But you still need help, and I'd feel a lot better if you got some medical attention."

A light suddenly went off behind Otto's eyes. "What if we took him to Sammy?"

"Who's Sammy?" Twister asked curiously.

"A friend of ours. He does lifeguard stuff in the summer, and he's pretty smart. I bet he'd be able to help you, and he wouldn't say anything to the nurse, if you asked him nicely."

"Oh... is it like a bribe? I don't have money."

"A... bribe?"

"Josh Grody said I have to pay him bribes so the football team won't lock me in the storage," Twister replied. "I don't like it in there. The shadows do bad things... is Sammy gonna tell my uncle if I don't pay?"

"No, sweetie," Reggie said sadly. "Sammy's a really nice guy. He'd never make you do something like that. Come on... we'll show you."

Twister seemed a little more receptive to the idea, once they'd repeated it a few times, and eventually, he allowed them to help him off the ground, so they could begin escorting him to Sam. The entire way to the A/V club and lab, Twister talked about all manner of things under the sun: From what he saw around him, to sports, to what he thought Otto and Reggie were like, to what he thought Gary Stoat was like. They had to carry him between them, for he staggered with the soreness in his body, and it was a chore trying to keep him focused on his footing.

They had been lucky not to run into many people along the way; one or two students stared as they passed, and the siblings nodded nervously and made excuses as they hurried by with Twister. They had just reached the door to the lab, when the bell went off, signifying the end of one class, and the beginning of the five-minute rush to the next.

"Fuck it," Otto muttered. "I'm not learning anything in history, anyway."

"I doubt dad would agree," Reggie countered, "But we're not leaving him."

"You should go to class," Twister said. "I have music. I like music! It's really pretty. Lots of people think stuff like classical or folk is really lame, but it's only 'cause they don't really listen to more than a few genres. That guy Eddie gets it – he listens to metal, and metal gets complicated. Do you think all the old-school composers would like Mastodon?"

"Okay, Twist, let's get inside," Reggie said quickly. "Come on."

"'Twist?'" Twister repeated, smiling dazedly as they entered the room. "That's funny. I'm not supposed to be like a tornado, but people said when I go surfing, it's like that. And they say I get to be called Twister 'cause I don't always say stuff right."

He was off again, and Reggie and Otto would have been slightly amused, and more exasperated, had it not been so worrying to hear him ramble like that. Fortunately, they spotted Sam at last, sitting alone in the lab, with a headset covering his ears. With his back turned to them, his focus was on an old ham radio that he'd laid out on the desk before him.

"Hey, Sammy!" Reggie called loudly, to no effect. "Sammy. SAMMY!"

Otto rolled his eyes, and passed Twister off to Reggie. While Reggie guided Twister to the nearest seat, Otto approached Sam from behind, paused, then quickly lifted one of his earphones.

"Sammy!"

Sam shot out of his seat, almost toppling over, startled for dear life. "Dammit, Otto!" he snapped, when he'd recovered.

"Well! We called you and you didn't answer. We need your help, dude."

He pointed to Twister, who waved at him. "Hi, Squid," Twister greeted.

"Squid?" Otto repeated.

Sam blinked, then went wide-eyed, as he saw the bruises. He approached, adjusting his glasses nervously, before he reached out without pause, and tilted Twister's chin up, to take a better look at his neck. Twister bore this patiently for a moment, but when Sam began prying at the bruises, he pulled away, almost growling.

"Hey, come on, Twister," Sam said, "Keep still."

"But it hurts. Do you have vodka? Uncle said he drinks that to stop pain."

"No, buddy, I don't. You can't drink that, okay?"

Reggie and Otto stared at the apparent familiarity between them. "Sammy... you know him?" Reggie asked.

Sam nodded. "He comes in here to help sometimes. He's pretty good with video recording and editing."

"Twist, dude, why didn't you say you knew Sam?" Otto said.

Twister looked puzzled. "Sam? That's Squid."

"Guess I never told you my real name, huh?" Sam muttered. "Oh well. Twister, _I'm_ Sammy. It's my real name. Do you understand?"

"I think so... like how I'm Maurice, but I'm Twister, too?"

"Yeah, that's right," Sam smiled, looking pleased.

Reggie and Otto traded yet another look. Sam, noticing their puzzlement, gave a weary sigh. "Twister's a little different, guys," he explained. "Not really sure how, since nobody's given him a formal diagnosis."

Twister looked down shyly. "Uncle says I have Idiot Syndrome. I know that's not a real problem. I-I... I'm sick," he mumbled. "I see weird stuff sometimes, like... like animals, I guess. They're scary."

"Educated guess? He's got a combination of some schizophrenia-related illness, and possible autism or retardation," Sam elaborated. "But, again, not really sure. Oliver could tell you more."

Twister frowned. "He doesn't like me."

"Oh, Twister. That's not true," Sam told him. "Remember what I said? You were hallucinating, buddy. The real Oliver wouldn't say that kind of stuff to you."

"But how do I know you're not just telling me that to cover for him?

"You're gonna have to try to trust me, okay? Oliver is a nice guy. He actually thinks pretty highly of your A/V stuff."

"Oh," Twister paused. "I like A/V."

Sam just smiled for him, and continued inspecting his injuries. Twister fell into silence, squirming while Sam patched him up where he could. The Rocket siblings watched on, similarly quiet, and only answering when Sam prompted them to explain some of Twister's injuries. The pair were still trying to figure their new friend out, uncertain how to proceed with the revelations they'd been presented regarding his mind.

Otto was the first to grow fed up with wondering. "So, Twister... you, like, see and hear stuff? You said something about animals."

Twister paled. "Yeah," he answered softly. "They come through my room a lot. One of them is really mean, and scary. It likes to scream at me when I'm not looking, and if I look, it stares at me all the time."

Sam grimaced. "Is it the wendigo again?"

Twister nodded glumly. "I wish it would go away. I saw it yesterday, and I think it wanted to hurt me."

"I'm sorry, buddy. I know it can be pretty scary, seeing that. Did you try to tell it the story?"

"I told it the story, but the teacher didn't like that I was talking in class, so she made me go out," Twister grumbled.

At this, Sam stilled. "You saw it in class?" When Twister nodded, he continued, "Twister, you promised you'd go talk to the counselor if that happened again."

Twister looked ashamed. "I'm sorry."

"When you're feeling a little better, will you go talk to her? Remember that it's okay to talk to her. She won't tell on you."

"It said if I spoke to her again, it would hurt me," Twister mumbled. "And if I get hurt again, my uncle will notice."

Reggie and Otto watched him sadly, finally coming to terms with just how sick Twister was. Sam, however, looked suspicious and slightly alarmed, and he pulled a chair up to the boy, sitting down to face him.

"Have you been hurting yourself again?" he asked seriously.

"No..."

"Twister. It's really important that you try to stop doing that. Okay? I know you feel like it helps your hallucinations go away, but it's not good for you. Please promise me you'll go talk to the counselor."

Twister wouldn't meet Sam's eye. "I don't wanna get hurt."

"I know, buddy. I don't want you to get hurt, either."


	35. Chapter 34

Change was a funny thing, Sam thought wistfully, as he looked around himself. He couldn't help but smile, seeing so many familiar faces together again. Almost all those faces bore their own grins, as chatter and laughter filled the sea air. The boat rocked along, cresting waves gently enough to provide a calming sway that put all at ease.

Sam listened in amusement, as Otto told a skeptical Reggie and Trent of the time he'd taken a jet ski out into storm swells. He was locked arm-in-arm with Clio, who smirked and rolled her eyes at the story, but never spoke up, simply for the pleasure of hearing him talk. Both Reggie and Trent mirrored their pose, and Sam's smile widened, as he recalled the moment both couples had gotten together.

Thinking of couples, he let his eyes drift over to where Ray and Noelani were seated at the bow, talking merrily with Tito and Paula, and Sandy and Raoul. Each held a glass of some peculiar-but-delicious alcoholic concoction that Tito had whipped up earlier, and the more they drank, the louder their laughter became. Sam looked to his own drink, noting with mild surprise that he'd almost finished it.

"Someone's a little lush tonight," a voice at his side teased.

This gave Sam his biggest grin ever, and he wrapped his arm around Trish's waist. "Too much thinking leads to drinking," he replied, giving her a playful peck on the cheek. "Where did you disappear to?"

"Helping Lars and Sherry figure out how to play poker. Can't believe they'd never played before. Apparently Twister wiped the floor with both of them earlier, so when he left, they decided to try to improve for a rematch tomorrow."

And here was where Sam's smile faded a little. "Where'd he take off to?"

Trish caught the subtle hint of worry in his tone. "Lars said he wanted some time alone. Actually, I'm pretty sure he's still steering the boat," she eased Sam's drink out of his hand, reading his thoughts. "I'm gonna go rescue our desperate comrades from the clutches of Rocket Boy's ego."

Sam gave her a grateful kiss. "I'll try not to be too long."

"Hey, don't worry about it. Go be his friend."

She slid from his grip, and Sam watched her pick her way over to the others. For the millionth time in the four years they'd been together, he felt a surge of indescribably beautiful gratitude for Trish. She'd supported him though all manner of hills and valleys, and he was proud to say he'd done the same in return.

He forced himself to draw his gaze away, then made his way along the outside of the boat, gripping the railing as he went. His mind turned back to Twister, and a saddened ache formed in his chest, as he came to realize that, with everyone else on the boat paired off, Twister probably felt more isolated than ever – and that wasn't something Sam wanted him to feel.

Once, he might have been able to join them in their revelries. When they had all entered their late teens, a young woman by the name of Talia had moved to Ocean Shores from Israel, and Twister had fallen hopelessly in love with her. She, in turn, had rebuked his pursuits, over and over, until time and chance changed her heart, and bade her to fall in love with him, in return.

They had been the last couple to join, among the teen group as a whole, but their bond had been, perhaps, the strongest of all. They'd always seemed to be two parts of a whole to Sam; people who were simply in tune at a complex and wonderful depth. Nothing, it seemed, could bring them apart, and as they grew older, the strength of their unity only grew stronger.

Even when matters in her homeland grew worse, and Talia felt it her duty to serve her country, Twister remained steadfast and loyal. They kept in contact all throughout her training and deployment, and he swore he'd await her return, even if that meant waiting for years. It had been hard to watch; it was no easy thing, having one's love away at war, and many times, Sam and the others had been there for Twister, too, when the dark of the night sometimes became a little too much to bear alone.

_"__I mean... she's going to come home," Twister said anxiously, "...right?"_

_"She'll come home," Reggie reassured him, smiling gently._

_"I'm gonna marry her, Reg. That's what I'm gonna do. When she comes home, we'll get married..." he trailed off, then whispered, "I miss her."_

Not more than a year after Talia's active duty, there came the darkest night of all.

Sam, Otto and Reggie had been with Twister the day he'd received a call from an Israeli military line, and Sam would never forget the way his friend's face had changed from that easygoing, jovial grin, to stark terror, in the seconds it took him to realize Talia would never call from such an ID. He'd answered with shaking hands.

The death notification had been short, delivered by one of Talia's squadmates. Talia had been killed, she told Twister, by an IED. Her death had been instantaneous; she hadn't known pain.

No, the pain, Sam thought with a grimace, had been Twister's to bear. That, too, was something Sam would never be able to forget, so long as he lived: That delay of shock in Twister's confused eyes; the way he'd somehow found his way to the wall, and slid down unsteadily; that awful, strangled, barely-audible wail of raw _anguish_ he'd given, when the reality had set itself upon him. Sam had never heard such a terrible sound come from his friend, and it had been the scariest, most heartbreaking thing he'd ever witnessed to date.

Sam reached the stern of the boat, where the broad cabin blocked the view of the revelries up in the bow. Almost immediately, he spotted Twister, seated at the helm. The redhead didn't appear to notice Sam; his eyes had a stern and intense look about them, and his focus lay dead-ahead, while his hands gripped the wheel, as if steering in these gentle waves were the most difficult task in the world.

As he approached, Sam's eyes traveled to Twister's bare arms. He never meant to – none of them ever did – but it was difficult not to stare at the echoes of impact that Talia's death had on Twister. The marks were, by now, faded and closed, but all were permanent. His self-harm had been brutal, violent and aggressive in ways Sam still hated to think about, and now Twister's arms were a battlefield of marks, on all sides, all the way from his wrists, right up to his shoulders.

Twister finally noticed him come close. He glanced at Sam, briefly, and although that hard look went away, he didn't smile. "Hey, Squid," he greeted quietly, as Sam took a seat on the bench nearby.

"Ahoy, Captain Rodriguez," Sam teased gently. "You should get Otto to take over. I think Reg and Trent will thank you."

Twister managed a light grin, though it didn't reach his eyes; it rarely did. "Don't really wanna go up there," he confessed.

Sam winced. "You want me to drag his ass over here for you?"

"Nah, man, just... I dunno. I don't feel like moving right now."

Sam nodded in understanding, and the pair of them sat in silence for awhile. Notes of conversations drifted back to them from the bow, and Sam found himself wishing the boat were much bigger. He knew Twister wished this, as well, for he sighed deeply and heavily.

"You have each other," he said simply.

"You still have us," Sam countered. "So, maybe it would have been a little more prudent to invite some company for you-"

"I don't want to date," Twister growled.

"That's not what I meant. I'm just saying, it was kind of a dumb move on our part to have all of us here as... as couples."

Twister lost some of his ire, sighing again. "Not your fault. I'm like a fifteenth wheel. I don't want you guys to all pity me or whatever the fuck."

Sam frowned. "We don't pity you, Twist. We worry about you, and we care about you. But we don't pity you."


	36. Chapter 35

It wasn't noticeable, at first. The warm days of summer passed by with all the usual joy and activity; the gang surfed, or boarded at Mad Town when the waters were too calm. But, like all terrible things do, a shadow crept up alongside them, insidious and patient, waiting for its time to strike. The first signs were seen at the Shack, during the down-time between sport and play. While the others happily munched on their food, their friend declined, stating – as he always did, lately – that he wasn't hungry.

"Have a coconut shake, then," Ray would encourage, only to be turned down.

Water seemed fine, and it was just as well, for nobody in their right, or perhaps even wrong, mind would want to suffer dehydration in Southern California. Yet, even this was consumed tentatively in company, without enthusiasm. It was as if Twister feared consuming anything at all in front of them.

The more this happened, the more concerned the others became. Twister was not a portly guy, and had the toned muscles that came so naturally with his lifestyle. There was no reason for him to worry about weight matters. Yet, when Reggie asked him one day about this – about whether it concerned him – he was quick to avoid the topic altogether.

"Let's surf. I don't wanna sit here all day."

The signs piled up when they returned to high school. Twister never joined them in the cafeteria, and was always 'busy' if the crew decided to hit the Shack after a long day of lessons. That was when they began taking to offering him things: An apple from Sam, or a bag of chips from Otto. Frequently, Reggie 'accidentally' acquired an extra taco with her orders, and was more than willing to give it to Twister, every time. No one ever mentioned that Reggie wasn't a fan of tacos.

One evening, while both Rocket siblings relaxed at home in front of the TV, Ray passed them by, feeling conflicted. He stopped behind them, hands fidgeting in his pockets, while he paid no attention whatsoever to the hockey program.

"Kids, can I ask you something?" he blurted.

"What's up, pops?" Otto said.

Ray hesitated. "How's Twister doing? I haven't seen him at the Shack lately."

The silence that followed was heavy and tense. Ray felt it, even before he finished speaking, and though he immediately regretted the query, need overcame dread.

"He's okay, I guess," Reggie answered, far too long after the silence.

Ray knew what that meant. It was a teenager's answer, packed with doubts and fears unvoiced: she was worried about Twister. Ray surrendered to parental instincts then, moving around to sit with them. Otto muted the TV, giving away his own concerns, for if he was willing to shift sports aside, the matter must be important. Looking over them both, Ray had to push his nerves down, and face the monster before him.

"I don't you guys to take any of this the wrong way," he began, "But I've noticed that he hasn't been eating much. Were you aware of that?"

Of course they were. Neither of them wanted to look him in the eye, but Reggie made the effort, regardless. "We noticed. He won't really talk about it with us."

"Okay. How would you guys feel if I tried to talk to him about it?"

It didn't precisely matter how they felt; the point was to try to gauge how Twister might react, for no one knew him better than his friends. Ray was not his dad, but he liked to think of himself as a close second, by merit of his children's unbreakable bond with the boy. That, and Raoul and Sandy were out of the picture so frequently, that Lars and Twister both seemed to lack parents altogether. If anyone in Ocean Shores could help crack open this difficult and delicate matter, it was Ray Rocket.

"I don't think he'd like that," Otto responded uneasily. "You know how he is."

"Yeah, I do. But I also think this is a pretty serious matter-"

"He needs a doctor," Reggie interrupted.

"...we don't know that, princess. It could just be a coincidence."

"But we do know. Nobody ever says anything because we're all scared to!" the heart of the matter was emerging, under Reggie's charge. "He's... he's sick, isn't he? Twister is sick."

Ray wasn't sure how to reply. A confirmation stuck on the tip of his tongue, restrained by denial, and the ever-present urge to protect his kids from shadows like this one. It didn't matter, however, because they saw it anyway; both could read the answer in his eyes.

Otto tossed the remote aside with a scowl. "He'll be fine." Denial already? This troubled Ray. Denial was Otto's way of facing uncomfortable truths.

"No, he won't be, Otto!" Reggie argued, her voice a little unbalanced. "He needs _help_ – professional help. If it's... if it's anorexia, or something worse, he's going to keep suffering until we _do_ something about it. Because you know he won't."

"What are you talking about?! He's a _guy_. Anorexia is a girl thing."

"No, it isn't! Guys get it, too. He's not immune to it just because of his gender."

"Whatever."

The classic response, and so soon in their spat. With that lone word, Ray knew he couldn't beat around the bush anymore. Twister was in trouble, and he needed help.

…

Twister watched his friends out of the corner of his eye, and noticed he was being watched in return. Nobody said a word, but the stillness was hefty enough that even he could taste those unspoken worries. He saw Tito approach him from the grill, and stared on solemnly, as the old fry cook placed a basket of fries in front of him.

"Try some of these, little cuz," Tito offered a bit too nervously. "New spice recipe."

That sparked Twister's suspicions. "No thanks, Tito," he mumbled.

"Come on, Twister-cuz. You gotta eat _something_ for lunch."

The stares seemed to burn into him now, and he tensed in response. Did they know? He hadn't exactly gone around broadcasting his new 'habit', but on reflection, he wondered if he'd been a little too obvious in his refusals and diversions. This scared him, and he stole a glance at his friends. All wore their various masks of worry: Otto, with his false cover of _I-don't-care_; Sam, with never-ending glasses-polishing; and Reggie, with her hands folded but fidgeting.

"I'm not hungry."

It was such an obvious lie; his stomach screamed for food, any food, but he pushed the feeling back sharply, with a nasty, hateful reprimand: he didn't _deserve_ food. He was too stupid for food. Eating was for people who had futures, or people with families who gave a damn. Not for him. With trembling hands, he pushed the basket away from himself, and refused to meet anyone's eye.

"Twister."

He could sense Ray's close proximity, and in the man's tone, there was cold fear – the fear a father might have for his son. Twister stalwartly stared into the grain of the table in front of him, even as he felt Ray sit down by his side.

"Buddy, why aren't you eating?" Ray asked softly.

"I eat at home."

"No, I don't think that's true, Twister. I'm worried about you, you know that? We all are. I just want you to know that you can talk to us."

"I'm fine."

A slam sounded suddenly to his left, startling everyone. Twister cringed away instinctively, his mind belting out more admonishments: They were angry with him. Disappointed. He was disgraceful. _Disgusting_.

"You're not 'fine', dude," Otto snapped. "You're pale as hell. You don't eat. You don't even _smile_ for real anymore!"

"Otto, enough," Ray warned.

"It's the truth! And when we ask what's wrong, you keep lying, Twist. Why can't you just come out and _say_ something?!"

More dreadful silence. Twister raised his hand to cover the side of his face, not caring how odd it looked. His throat felt tight, and he thought tears might soon follow, if he didn't get himself under control. Just so long as he could cover his face like this, and hide his scorching shame, he felt he would be able to fight it.

Except, it wasn't quite working this time. Out of desperation, and to cast attention away, he reached with his other hand for the basket, plucking a small fry from the lot. His initial goal had been to simply bite down on the awful thing – bite the bullet – and show them. _See?_ The motion would say. _I'm fine_. But he froze, watching his fingers tremble as they held that lonely fry. He commanded himself to eat it, _eat SHIT, you disgusting FUCK_, but no motion followed. He dropped it back into the basket, as if it had bitten him.

_I don't deserve to eat. I don't deserve to eat. I don't deserve to eat. I don't deserve-_

"Twister," Ray whispered, his voice now choked with terrible dread, "Why do you think you don't deserve to eat?"

Twister went rigid. He hadn't realized his tongue had spoken with his thoughts; hadn't seen himself in the nearly trance-like state, which so frightened his friends, as he muttered that awful mantra out like an incantation.

He couldn't fight it.

"I don't get to have food," he blurted hoarsely. "I don't get to eat it. It's _wrong_. Food is for good people, good kids, who feel good things, and I'm not. I'm not good. I'm shit. I'm _shit_."

Ray exchanged a dark glance with Tito, and neither man thought they had ever seen the other look so tired, or so pained, in their entire lives. Not even Dani's death brought these expressions to them. Reggie, Sam and Otto had all lost face, as well, looking pallid and frightened.

"How can you say that about yourself, Twister?" Reggie said softly. "You're not shit. You're one of the most wonderful people I've ever known."

"Please don't lie for me, Reg," Twister pleaded, feeling his tears fall of their own accord. "I don't want you to have to pretend. It's not right."

"But she's _not_ lying, Twist," Sam said urgently. "It's the truth, and I agree with her: You're not shit, and you have so much good in you. You're our best friend, and we love you, dude. We don't like seeing this happen to you."

Twister grabbed at his head in agitation, shutting his eyes tightly. "It's not true."

"And why not, little cuz?" Tito asked.

"Because that's _not_ what I get! You can't. You can't love me. I'm not... it's not-"

"You think you don't deserve love?" Tito finished weakly.

"Why the hell should I?! Why should I deserve anything, Tito?! It's not like mom and dad give a fuck, anyway! I don't understand why you think you or anybody else should care! It's _wrong!_"

"You feel like your parents aren't there for you, don't you?"

"They're not. They're not there. And... and I don't wanna be here, either. I don't wanna _ever_ be here again. If this is how it's supposed to be... if this is how life is, I don't want it. I don't _want it_."

The next stillness pressed in on him, for he knew the severity of his sobbing statement; knew the implications of admitting something like that to others. He feared, now that he had brought clarity to it, for elaborating on this confession would surely bring more prying, and more misery. He didn't want that, either. He didn't want to know.

His despair gripped him so tightly that he was shocked out of his mind by the eventual response. One moment, he was alone in his torment... and the next, there were arms wrapping around him. Warm, safe, _comforting_ arms, which held in them impossible levels of love and care. It was a love he hadn't felt for so long, and never with such power. His father never gave hugs – just awkward pats on the shoulder, granted halfheartedly, as if the action was shameful. His mother, too, deprived him of this, giving absent, emotionless hugs, as if the contact were an afterthought, and nothing more. And Twister, being a young man, never felt right for seeking this touch elsewhere. It wasn't _manly_, his father would say. It wasn't something he should desire.

But he wanted it; he _needed_ it. He'd had no idea how much this was so, right up until Raymundo brought his arms around the boy, and held on for dear life. This triggered a cascade effect, as Tito, then Twister's friends, joined the embrace, gripping this too-thin teen with everything they had, desperate to show him their love.

Part of him panicked for a moment; had he not just told them he didn't deserve this?! But soon enough, he found – to his great surprise – that every single one of his barriers were dissolving under this unorthodox barrage.

It was then that he found himself sobbing again, unable to stop himself. There, next to the shadow he had carried alone, he broke.

…

Ray wanted to scream. He wanted to grip Raoul by the shoulders and shake him; shake him around violently, until, through brain damage or miracle, the reality of how badly he'd neglected his youngest son's needs settled into his skull.

But Ray did no such thing. By the grace of every divine being in existence, he held his composure. He was not beyond openly scowling at the man in disgust, however, for even now, after hearing from Ray that Twister was unwell, Raoul habitually checked his watch. What was he late for? What in god's name was more important to him than Twister's well-being?

Watching the two fathers from nearby, Tito kept his hands fixed on Twister's shoulders, rubbing them gently, as he felt the trembling in the kid's body. Tito also kept a firm eye on the other three teens, who were slowly coming to the same conclusions – and emotions – that Ray had reached.

"Raoul?" Ray asked coldly.

Raoul glanced up from his watch again, mildly surprised. "Yes, I'm sorry. I'll schedule an appointment with Maurice's doctor next week."

"Next week," Ray repeated flatly. "I see. Were you going to book an afternoon tea, as well? How about a business seminar? I'm sure you'll manage to fit your _son_ somewhere in that tidy schedule."

"Ey, steady, bruddah," Tito cautioned.

Raoul looked clueless for a moment, clearly trying – and catastrophically failing – to comprehend Ray's growing hostility. He glanced to his watch again, before his eyes traveled to Twister. Twister shrunk under his father's stare, and looked away, unable to meet his eye. He was still crying – had been since they had brought him back to the Rocket residence – and was clearly deeply ashamed to present his tears to Raoul. It wasn't quite clear why, until a few seconds later.

"Maurice, you are not a child anymore," Raoul snapped, frowning. "Stop crying, or your friends will think you are a pansy."

"We don't think that at all," Reggie shot back, he voice dangerously calm.

"Yes, well. I won't have a Rodriguez be seen doing that. You are becoming a man now, Maurice. You must act like one."

Twister didn't stop crying, his tears worsening. "Papa-"

"What have I told you before? I am not 'papa' anymore to you. You will say 'father' or 'Raoul'. If you make this mistake again, I will have to punish you."

"He's sixteen, Raoul," Ray said quietly, shocked by the idea of Twister getting punished for such a thing. "He's just a kid."

"Not for much longer!" Raoul said with false cheer. "I won't have him being a weak sissy when he turns eighteen."

"He won't turn eighteen at all if you don't pull your head out of your ass!" Otto snarled.

Raoul's jaw fell, and his face turned a deep maroon, as he stared at Otto with wide eyes. Everyone froze, and Otto looked like he regretted his outburst – a little. Slowly, Raoul closed his mouth, and looked to Ray, criticism far too clear in his eyes. Ray's initial instinct had been to ground Otto immediately for his blatant rudeness... but as he saw Raoul's face, and saw not a single trace of question or concern, that desire fizzled and died.

"I hope," Raoul said stiffly, "You don't encourage this behavior in my son, as well-"

"Otto's behavior is absolutely acceptable, in this case, because it's the truth," Ray interrupted, before he indicated to Twister. "He hasn't been eating. He's been miserable, and withdrawn. He's _sick_, Raoul. Really sick. He told us things today that put gray hairs on me, but you haven't even batted an eye. You wanna know what he said?"

"Raymundo, please don't," Twister choked.

"Be quiet, Maurice," Raoul snapped, collapsing Ray's final barrier of restraint.

"No, let him TALK!" Ray bellowed, scaring every soul in the room. "You let him speak! Because if he hadn't had the courage to speak to us today, he might never have gained it. He doesn't want to live, Raoul! Did you know that? Did you EVER stop for him, even for a goddamn second, and ask him how he is?! Because he's _not well_. He thinks he's _worthless_ – that he doesn't deserve love. _Love_, Raoul. Imagine that for a minute, if you can – if you can get it through your thick head: A sixteen year old kid, going around believing he's too low to be given basic fucking love. Why do you think that is?!"

When Raoul had recovered from his alarm, he glared back at Ray. "Are you trying to tell me how to raise my children?!"

And there, Ray's anger failed him. He visibly deflated, his aching heart showing on his sleeve. "I'm telling you that your son is very ill," he finished softly. "Please, look at him. He _needs_ you, now more than ever. He needs to know that you love him. Can't you see him?"

Raoul held his gaze a moment, before he looked back to Twister. And in that moment, he _did_ see Twister – saw the deep, dark circles under the boy's eyes, and the unhealthy thinness that had begun to gradually take his body. He saw pain, fear, and self-loathing, and it made him turn, and take a step towards him. Then he took another, and another, uncertain in his footing, as if he wasn't sure what kind of creature he was approaching. Every breath held; every heart raced in sick anticipation, and desperate hope.

Raoul's watch beeped once.

There was nothing different about the way he glanced at the little device; nothing out of the ordinary at all – and that was the problem. Had he looked up again in time, he would have seen what Ray saw: Hope, newly born, withering to a cruel death behind Twister's eyes. The moment Raoul stopped to check that watch, Twister knew he would never receive what he sought from this man. Not ever again.

Raoul lowered his wrist, and it was as if his entire demeanor had been magically switched out. His approach to Twister became normal; routine and businesslike. When he halted in front of the boy, he reached out like an automaton, and rested his hand on Twister's shoulder, before there came what Twister dreaded most of all: The awkward pat.

Emotionless. Flat. Far, _far_ worse than no touch at all.

"I will ask your doctor for an appointment next week," Raoul said absently. "I expect you home by dinner."

And just like that, his hand fell limply to his side, as he turned and brushed past Ray, departing out the front door.

Tito felt the emotions hit Twister, long before he saw them, and he turned the boy right around, as Twister's breathing began to sharpen and quicken. He embraced Twister tightly, offering the comfort that his father had just so blatantly denied him, and Twister grabbed hold of him like a lifeline, breaking for the second time, as he gasped with the pain of the encounter.

"Shh, I know, little cuz. I know. I'm so sorry," Tito soothed. "Everything's gonna be okay. I _know_ it hurts. I _know_ you're scared. But you're not alone, you hear me? Uncle Tito wouldn't lie to you about that. Not ever."


	37. Chapter 36

"Twister? We got you a present. Would you like to see?"

Reggie's call brought Twister out of his apparent reverie. He stared curiously at his friends, his expression openly puzzled, and they couldn't help but smile, knowing that the gift would delight him. He was a little apprehensive for now, however; one too many times, there had been people in his life who had taken advantage of his innocence, promising gifts and instead delivering cruel tricks and mockery.

As a result, they made sure to keep their distance now. Otto, most especially, gave his friend plenty of space, for he held the gift behind his back. Twister eventually noticed this, and drew his knees up where he sat, hugging them close to himself, and giving a nervous whine of fear.

"It's okay, sweetie," Reggie reassured him. "I promise you'll like it."

Twister hid his head, leaving only a small gap for him to keep an eye on them, and indicating he didn't quite believe her. Otto exchanged glances with the others, and at their nods, he slowly brought his hands forward. At the motion, the gift gave a soft mewl, and Twister was instantly alert again, confusion evident in his eyes. Otto grinned, ear to ear, as he presented a small tuxedo kitten to his friend.

The moment he set eyes on the cat, Twister positively glowed, his fear evaporating under a radiant smile. He got right up off the couch, reaching out excitedly to take the tiny creature. Anyone watching might have been alarmed at how quickly he moved; he was the tallest of the teens, and didn't lack for muscle, either. He looked like the type who could easily overstep his strength, and snuff out the little life he reached for, but as soon as his hands wrapped around the animal, he became gentle and careful. He held it in front of himself for a moment, then – with the most genuine, heartfelt motion in the world – he cradled it close to his chest in a loving hug.

Sam turned away a moment, removing his glasses and making a show of blowing on them to clean them. Otto smirked.

"Something in your eye, Squid?" he teased.

"Cat hair, you know," Sam replied hurriedly, not quite able to conceal the waver in his voice.

Twister heard it, and his smile was instantly replaced with deep and sincere worry. "Sammy sad?" he queried.

"Oh, no, it's okay, Twist," Reggie said quickly. "Sammy's got happy tears, that's all."

Sam gave her a look; she and Otto were both smirking back, knowing full well he couldn't reprimand them without further causing Twister to fret. It didn't matter, in the end, because Twister quickly became distracted, as the kitten gave a very assertive cry. His attention, and smile, returned, and he let it explore his hands with all the curiosity a kitten could muster.

Twister belted out a full chuckle as the kitten started purring. "Thanks."

"You're welcome, buddy," Sam replied, sniffling.

"What do you wanna name him, dude?" Otto asked impatiently.

Twister looked thoughtful, but didn't reply.

"If you want, we can look up some names on the internet or something-"

"Chico!" Twister blurted.

"...Chico," Otto repeatedly slowly.

"Chico."

Reggie beamed. "Okay. Chico it is."

"We really letting him name his cat Spanish for 'boy'?" Otto muttered, out of Twister's hearing.

"He can name it whatever he wants to, Otto. It's his cat."

"Alright, fine," Otto held up his hands defensively. "Chico it is, then."

…

It hadn't always been like this.

Twister was fourteen when he'd been hit by a speeding car on his way back home, resulting in a coma that lasted for eight months. His chances of recovery had been slim, and his friends and family had gone through the grim hell of trying to determine what they would do if his condition grew worse; in that event, the decision whether to pull the plug would be presented to them.

But he'd woken up, and recovered. For the most part.

The impact to his head had caused significant brain damage – something they had once managed to joke about, in a late-night fest of gallows humor, for Twister had never been the brightest. Although his doctors anticipated he would live a long and healthy life, his brain injury left him with significant reductions to cognitive processes, making him permanently mentally disabled.

It had been a difficult adjustment, not just for his family, but for the gang, as well. They hadn't been certain what to make of him, at first, because he'd lost much of himself, and effectively functioned at the mental capacity of a young toddler. He hadn't completely disappeared, though, and in time, they came to realize that parts of the old Twister were still in there, and he was – and always would be – their beloved friend.

That was when they'd discovered that he could still play sports very well. True, he didn't follow complicated instructions well, and was easy to distract, but with time, and practice, he was able to keep up with his friends again. They'd even managed to put him on a few hockey matches, with mixed success – but he always seemed to enjoy these. The only thing they couldn't get him back into was riding a bike, since he'd learned he'd been hit when he was on one. There was some instinct in him that made him deathly afraid of doing so, and they had to exclude him from that mode of riding, as a consequence.


	38. Chapter 37

"I wish they'd tell us _something!_" Otto grumbled, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. "He's been in there for like an hour."

"It's gonna take time, Otto," Reggie replied tiredly. "He's not well."

Sam hummed in agreement. "Still... I'd like it better if they let us in on this a little. It's not like anyone else knows as much about this as we do."

The three friends thought back glumly on their time here. While Sam, Reggie and Otto had long ago settled and gotten used to the concept of boarding school, Twister was still struggling, even after a year on-campus. He had become short-tempered, snapping at even the slightest provocation, and his grades – never impressive to begin with – plummeted to dangerously low levels. He was sullen at other times, and rarely smiled or interacted with others. The only reason he wasn't completely isolated yet was because his lifetime friends stuck by him, determined to keep him from sinking. At times, this was hard on them, but they refused to even consider abandoning him.

At first, they had chalked his behavior down to homesickness, until time and immersion failed to solve the issue. They had asked him about it, over and over, only to be met with the same, peculiar, mumbled answer: _It's too close here_. He either couldn't, or wouldn't, elaborate on what this meant, and his friends were forced to work the hard way to try to keep his mood up.

He spent a great deal of time in the school's elaborate gardens, where they had found him one day, after a particularly violent outburst had landed him in trouble. He was a little calmer there, and after that discovery, they all made it a point to bring him there whenever they got the chance – provided it wasn't too crowded there for him.

Sam was the first to make the link between Twister's irascibility and the sizes of crowds. The conclusion came to him after several interruptions to garden excursions, where groups had upset Twister's attempts to gain a little peace and quiet. Those were some of the worst times; the times he lay miserably in his dorm bed, curled up, with his hands over his ears, to block out the bustle of other students in the area.

Quiet. Solitude. It was something totally absent on the campus, where extroversion activity reigned supreme, and silences were quickly and deliberately filled. Once upon a time, Twister had been part of the types who favored that bustle, but the boarding school experience had altered him somehow; made it so that he desperately pursued isolation.

Yesterday had been a breaking point.

They had gathered to look for him after classes, and started – as they always did – in the gardens. There, they had indeed found him, but his attempts to gain peace had been foiled by an event in the area. So packed was it with students, that Twister had simply shut down, stuffing himself into the corner of some hedge, while the peers around him stared and whispered about him.

Bringing him back to the dorms had not been successful, either. They had made it halfway there before Twister stopped, in the middle of the hallway, and slid down the wall, hands clasped so tightly over his ears that he hurt himself with the effort. They would never forget his words; his desperate, unbalanced muttering, as he clawed at his head and drew blood:

_It's too loud. I can't make it stop, it's too close and TOO LOUD. Please, make it stop. Please help me._

They'd had to call for a teacher after that, because attempts to make him stop scratching his ears were met with incoherent, violent outbursts from him. By the time he was escorted to the infirmary, he had been screaming and thrashing, and they had watched in terror as the nurses resorted to calming him with an injected sedative.

As Otto had stated, that had been over an hour ago. Now, they sat in the waiting room by the infirmary, their patience thinning the longer they went without knowing how Twister was doing.

"Sammy, you're smart," Otto said abruptly.

"...yes? I generally like to think so," Sam replied cautiously.

"So... can't you, like... make a guess about all of this? You figured out that Twist doesn't like crowds. Can you tell what's wrong with him?"

"It's never that easy," Sam sighed, "And I'm not a psychologist. Or a psychiatrist."

"But what did he mean? When he said it was 'too loud'?"

"Probably exactly that. Twister's perception of sound is probably a sensory overload problem. But it doesn't explain much; most people with sensory overload are kids on the autism spectrum, or with ADHD, and Twist doesn't strike me as the type to have an autism spectrum disorder, at least."


	39. Chapter 38

A knock, uneven and erratic in cantor, sounded at the door. Reggie frowned, pausing the TV, and checked her phone: It was just past two in the morning. Who would be knocking at this hour? She glanced briefly at Otto, who lay snoring on the other end of the sofa, and thanked the heavens once again that Ray and Noelani were away on a holiday.

Tossing the remote down, she rose to the door, and braced against it, in the event that this night visitor was an opportunist of the less honorable sort. She opened the door just ever so slightly, allowing only enough of a gap for her to peer out. A wary greeting formed on the tip of her tongue... before it was lost, as she saw who was on the other side.

Twister stood on the porch, leaning heavily against the wall of the house. He managed to look up as the door swung in, and the moment he did, Reggie saw something was terribly wrong; his eyes were bloodshot, hazy, and heavily unfocused, and his skin was drenched in sweat. He seemed to be trembling, his legs barely supporting him, and his jaw hung a little slack.

"Reg?" he slurred. "Hel... hel'me..."

"Twister? What the hell?!" Reggie flung open the door with a gasp. "Are... are you okay? What-?"

She didn't get to finish her question, for Twister had taken an unsteady step – and promptly pitched forward dangerously, his knees giving out from beneath him. Reggie lunged, catching him under the arms, barely. She staggered and grunted with the effort of holding him upright, for while he was thin, he was by no means a small individual. He slumped against her heavily, his head lolling on his shoulders, mumbling incoherently. Bracing herself, Reggie began to awkwardly pull him inside.

Her heart had started racing with fear, but once she smelled his breath, it slowed, as annoyance and not a small fraction of disgust took over. She wasn't sure she'd ever seen him _this_ drunk before, but she knew he self-medicated with alcohol far too often for his own good.

"Hey, Otto?" Reggie called back, fighting to get Twister to the couch. "Otto!"

Otto stirred, drawing in a sharp breath and blinking in her direction. It took him a moment, but once he came further out of sleep, he squinted at the sight. "Reg? Is... is that _Twister?_"

"Well-spotted, genius! Can I get a little help? He's totally wasted..."

"Ah, jeez," Otto sprung up from the sofa, rushing over to help. "Maybe we should take him home."

"And get him busted by his parents? No way. Come on, let's get him lying down."

They hoisted their friend between them, setting him carefully down on the sofa. His eyes were barely open now, and he remained limp, as they coaxed him into lying down. Reggie removed his shoes, and while Otto watched him, she made a side trip to the kitchen, to retrieve a bucket, returning and setting it down near Twister.

Otto winced. "Please don't tell me he's gonna hurl..."

"He probably will, with this much in his system," Reggie sighed. "Here, turn him a little bit, on his side. I don't want him choking."

"Reg?" Twister called again. "Reggie..."

Reggie's lips thinned to a line, as she struggled between irritation and pity. "I'm here, Twister."

"M'sor."

The siblings traded looks. "He sounds worse than Sputz," Otto remarked.

"Try to go to sleep, Twist," Reggie ordered.

It wasn't clear whether he heard or understood her, or not. Sighing again, Reggie pulled a blanket from the end of the sofa, and crossly began untangling it. Otto, feeling the heat radiating from Twister's skin, tugged on his shirt, trying to pull it off, so he would at least be reasonably more comfortable. As he lifted the edge of Twister's tank top, exposing his chest, he stopped, his eyes widening.

"Reggie," he said quietly.

His serious tone alerted his sister immediately, and she lowered the blanket, looking down at Twister. When she saw what Otto had found, she gasped: Twister's chest was marred with massive bruises and welts, and a few spots that bore the obvious signature of hickeys. More mysterious were the gruesome-but-small, circular spots on him, in random places. They almost looked like _burns_.

"What the fuck happened to him?" Otto demanded, as if Reggie had all the answers.

Some alarm began persisting at the back of Reggie's mind. The bruises, she might have been able to explain with a possible altercation – for Twister could get fairly aggressive when drunk – but the other marks didn't match that profile. It was the hickeys that made her feel cold, when she looked at them; cold with dread.

She crouched close to Twister. "Twister? Hey, look at me," she said firmly, resting a hand against his face. "Look this way. Can you try to focus for me?"

This time, he seemed to hear her, and his glazed-over eyes found hers. "Reg...?"

"Where did you get hurt, Twist? Do you remember?"

He looked lost, until Reggie repeated the question, and – with very gentle fingers – pressed just under one of his injuries. He shut his eyes in a wince, and whined in pain, and she withdrew at once, though she repeated her query one last time.

"Hur'me," Twister mumbled in response. "M... m'drink n... funny... funny taste."

"Your drink tasted funny?" Reggie tried to clarify.

Otto went white at the implication. "_What?_"

"I don't know. I can barely understand him."

"You think someone drugged his drink?"

"God, I really hope not, but... those are _hickeys_."

"So maybe he just got with a girl and they got handsy. It doesn't mean anything."

"Otto, even if his drink wasn't spiked, he's had enough booze that he wouldn't be able to consent if someone did come onto him."

Otto swallowed audibly, looking ill with the thought. "Twist, buddy?" he shook his friend gently by the shoulder, "Twister. Did something happen?"

Twister slurred another completely incoherent reply, but it was clear to both of them that he was desperately trying to tell them something. Reggie thought for a moment, then took one of his hands in both of her own.

"I'm gonna ask some questions, Twister. Okay?" she said, very clearly and slowly. "You don't have to speak, but I want you to try to squeeze my hand really tight for yes, and wiggle your thumb for no. Do you understand?"

There was a tense pause, with both siblings staring at Twister's hand – before his fingers tightened in a clear squeeze.

"Okay! Good, Twister. That's good. Here's my first question: Do you think someone put something in your drink?"

A squeeze; a much tighter squeeze, that made Reggie's heart leap to her throat. Otto climbed to his feet abruptly, turning away and running his hands through his dreads anxiously. While he paced, Reggie fought to control her emotions.

"I have another question now, okay?" she went on. "You're doing really good. Do you remember if someone, um... if someone tried to... to do stuff with you?"

The question was awkward – poorly phrased by her nerves – and she didn't blame Twister for not giving a reply. She tried again.

"Did you have sex?" she managed, closing her eyes.

The responding squeeze was weaker; reluctant. _Scared_. Which made the next question so much harder for Reggie to bring forward:

"Did you _want_ to have sex?"

"Jesus Christ," Otto blurted.

"Quiet, Rocket Boy. Twister? Yes or no, did you want to have sex?"

The tapping of Twister's thumb against her palm, clumsy and uncoordinated, but clear in its message, was one of the worst answers she had ever received in her life. She opened her eyes again, and worked her jaw, trying to bring words, but nothing followed. She felt a pair of incipient tears leave her eyes, and when she looked down, she saw that Twister was looking at her again.

Yes, he was still completely out of it... but some part of him retained his senses, and he knew what had happened to him; _knew_ why those two tears had shown on Reggie's face. Deep behind the veil of alcohol and drugs, she saw the pain and terror at last.


	40. Chapter 39

Twister didn't notice the approach until they were right up on him. All he got in warning was a squeak of fright from Sam, before he was forcefully grabbed from behind. The hands that held him twisted his arm behind his back, then slammed him down onto the table, holding him there.

"I bet you think you got away with it, you coward," a voice hissed close to his ear.

"What are you talking about?" Twister gritted his teeth. "Let go of me!"

"Let go? Why, so you can just walk free? I don't think so. My mom is in the hospital because of you, you filthy beaner."

With this statement, Twister finally understood who was pinning him down, and a horrible surge of dread ran right through his bones. Josh Grody kept a tight hold on him, while his crew began surrounding the table, blocking the view from onlookers who might feel inclined to intervene.

"Gentlemen, please! There's really no need for violence!" Sam bleated, backing away.

"Catch the dweeb," Josh commanded. "I want him to watch this."

"Sammy, run!" Twister yelled. "GO!"

Sam didn't hesitate to obey, bolting almost as soon as Twister shouted. Twister's hope went with him; there was no telling how long it might take for assistance to arrive, but he trusted his friend to go as fast as he could.

Josh chuckled, and grabbed Twister painfully by the hair. "You think the geek can save you? Oh, no, no, no. You're not getting out of this that easily, Rodriguez. Tommy? Thermos."

"Dude, stop! I didn't do anything to your mom!" Twister snapped. "I wasn't even in the same part of town!"

"You're a LIAR. I don't care what the stupid pigs said – her attacker was a spic, and you're a fucking spic. You're gonna pay."

"What the hell is wrong with you, you psycho? You just gonna attack everyone who's vaguely Latino?"

Josh didn't reply. Twister, still trapped in place, heard a metal lid being unscrewed, and a new bolt of terror washed over him. Hadn't Josh just mentioned something about a thermos? He began struggling, to no avail, for every motion sent blinding pain shooting up his arm. He saw the boys in Josh's crew turn inward, their faces curled into sneers, but also carrying the far more chilling expressions of morbid curiosity.

A split second later, the pain in his arm was forgotten, in the face of something far more intense.

A horrible scream tore from his throat, and his body was seized by agonized, involuntary spasms, as Josh began pouring boiling water onto the back of his neck. The table bucked under Twister's frantic, desperate thrashing, but Josh didn't let up, moving the stream of water down his back, until the thermos was empty.

"That," Josh spat, "Was for hitting her. But you're not done yet. Hold him."

By now, people all over the cafeteria had begun crowding in, trying to see what was happening, drawn as they were by that awful screaming. Josh didn't seem to care, and Twister wasn't in any state to call for help or fight back anymore. He shook and moaned under the burning, tears pouring down his face. He only distantly felt more hands grip him, and when someone very deliberately grabbed the back of his blistered neck, he almost blacked out, gasping in anguish.

His senses corrected in time to hear another lid unscrewing.

"FUCK, Josh, please don't!" Twister cried. "Please! I didn't do this! PLEASE!"

"That's right. _Beg_. Beg for me to stop, Rodriguez. She begged you, didn't she? Did you stop when she did?"

"I didn't fucking hurt your mom! Josh, please don't, DON'T-"

Twister pleading escalated into another animalistic scream, as the second thermos was emptied over him, this time on his lower back. Excruciating pain overwhelmed him, and he quickly succumbed to unconsciousness, his cries dying out, and his body finally granting him the sweet mercy of not having to experience the torture.

Josh didn't get to finish pouring the water. His friends gave shouts of warning, and no more, before they all scattered to the four winds, dispersing into the crowd, and letting Twister slump to the ground. A ripple of horrified whispers went up, as their departure revealed to all what was going on. Josh had only a moment to look up in confusion, before he and the thermos both went flying, as a figure tackled him.

Otto was too high on adrenaline to truly notice the burn of the water that had splashed his arms. He fought to restrain a panicking Josh, and couldn't quite get the upper hand... until Reggie appeared, and teamed up with her brother, pinning the snarling, cursing boy to the ground.

Teachers followed soon afterward, summoned to the charge by Sam, as well as many other frightened onlookers. Some of the teachers had come of their own accord, too, drawn from outside the cafeteria by the commotion within. They clustered around Twister, and the area became a complex sea of shouts, commands, and desperation. The Rocket siblings were eventually separated from Josh, and Sam joined them, as they were ushered out of the building.

As they left, Twister awoke, and the last thing they heard before their exit was their best friend, sobbing and weakly calling out in pain.


	41. Chapter 40

Twister startled, then sunk down miserably in his seat, as a ruler slapped across the top of his desk.

"Well, Maurice. Daydreaming again?" the teacher, Ms. Pentall, asked dryly.

"Sorry," Twister mumbled, blushing.

"Perhaps your time out on cloud nine has brought you the inspiration needed to raise your abysmal performance in my class. Tell me, did they teach you statistics there?"

Reggie shut her eyes, and though she wasn't particularly bound to any one god or religion, she started praying. _Don't answer, Twist_.

"Um... I was thinking about how to draw the steam in hot springs," Twister said cluelessly. "Do they talk?"

Reggie sighed, and declined to partake in the general giggling that erupted around the room at his response. Pentall wasn't impressed.

"What part of my class involves these hot springs of yours?" she asked. "Actually, better yet: at what point will this steam in your head bring you the grades you will need to pass high school?"

"I-I... I dunno. I guess it won't."

"No, it won't! Finally, you've made the correct answer!" Pentall cried, to more laughter. "That's a miracle in itself, Maurice. Since you're on such a roll today, why don't you head on up to the board, and give us a demonstration of your newfound genius?"

Twister looked at the board, and paled, seeing a complex chart and notations. The mere sight of the numbers made his chest feel tight, and because he was placed on the spot, it was ten times worse than it ordinarily was. He gulped, and rose unsteadily from his seat, taking the board pen in his hand. People began whispering, and he caught the usual remarks regarding his intelligence.

He fought this, trying to focus on what he knew... which, when it came to this subject, was still not a hell of a lot. Remembering what Sam had told him, he tried to look at the chart in small steps, but the numbers refused to hold still, and whenever he managed to get them to do so, they disappeared from his memory almost as soon as he grasped them. He looked to the question: _Using this chart, determine what percentage the company's profits increased by in the year 2003_. He found the year alright, but he couldn't make head or tail of the chart.

As time ticked by, Pendall cleared her throat pointedly, distracting Twister, and he lost any semblance of progress he'd made on the problem. He felt the blush creep up his neck and cheeks, and his mind ground to a halt, while his chest refused to allow him to draw full breaths. The panic screamed at him to take action – to _think, dammit!_ \- and in an impulsive move, he tried circling the year on the chart.

The class roared with laughter, and he immediately knew he'd have done better not to use the marker at all. He didn't look up, afraid to meet anyone's eye, and Reggie rubbed the bridge of her nose tiredly, in second-hand embarrassment for him.

"Is that your final answer, Maurice?" Pendall asked, amused.

"I-I... I..." Twister dropped the pen, to the further delight of his classmates. "I..."

"I see we're going to have to have a word with your language instructors, as well. Pick up the pen, and please write your age on the board."

Twister obeyed, though he didn't want to; he simply didn't see what choice he had. His hands were shaking as he wrote the number, and when he withdrew, he saw that it was nearly illegible. Pendall stalked up behind him, and gestured for him to stand aside. He took that as permission to sit down, and was halfway back to his desk before Pendall angrily recalled him to the front again.

"Seventeen!" she said to the class, pointing to the number with her ruler. "Most of you are this age, or older. At this age, you are expected to not only know how to solve simple, chart-based problems like this; you are expected to be able to _reason_. Those who _don't_ have a capacity for intelligent thought," she looked pointedly at Twister, "End up failing out of high school. And, as we have discussed _numerous_ times with all of you, failing high school is a ticket to failure in every aspect of your life!"

Reggie had never before wanted to cause bodily harm to a teacher; it really wasn't her way, and she'd learned to confront people with words over violence. In this case, however, if she didn't know she'd be expelled for doing so, she would have gotten up and slapped Pendall. She was both deeply furious at the teacher, and deeply sad for Twister, who looked so resigned and despondent, standing there with his eyes fixed firmly to the ground. It was a wonder that he wasn't crying, because Reggie certainly felt like crying.

And yet, Pendall wasn't finished.

"Why can you not solve this problem, Maurice?" she demanded, facing Twister.

He trembled. "I-I... th-the nu-numbers, ah, th-they... I-I can't-"

"Do you know how to calculate percentages?"

"N-no."

"And why not? It's very basic math. Math you should have learned at the beginning of your education here. Were you not paying attention?"

"I w-was, I just-"

"Can you add, boy? Tell me, please, quickly: What is fourteen plus twenty-six?"

Twister's jaw moved, but no more words came from him, and as the class made their mirth known once more at his failure, those tears finally came. Silent, and broken, they were, and they, in turn, silenced the other students, one by one, as the shock of such a sight hit them. Reggie's hand flew up to cover her mouth. In the stillness that followed, they could all hear Twister struggling to draw breath.

Pendall didn't share her students' sense of sympathy. She saw a young man in front of her – one who had a reputation as being foolish and lazy in his academic work. It was her way, to drive students hard, because she wanted them to succeed. The words 'too far' were almost unknown to her, especially when it came to pushing students like Twister. As far as she was concerned, his tears were not genuine, but an act, to try to get out of this well-needed scolding.

"I'm still waiting for your answer," she said quietly.

He didn't respond. He was frozen in place, and that breathing grew worse and worse.

"Maurice. Fourteen plus twenty-six. Solve it now, or leave my classroom, and never come back. You might as well walk out onto the streets after that, because that is where you are going to end up with this behavior."

Twister shut his eyes, both to cut off some of the outside world, and because he was fighting for control. His voice was utterly broken when he finally spoke again. "I-I c... can't. P-please. I can't. I can't-"

"You can't add? Is that what you're trying to tell me? Because that is truly pathetic."

"Ms. Pendall, please stop."

Pendall turned in surprise. Reggie was on her feet, watching Twister with worry now. "Sit down, Reggie."

"Please, look at him. He's really upset right now, and I don't think he's going to be able to answer any more questions."

"I'm afraid you're letting Maurice's act get into your head."

"It's not an act!" Reggie snapped, before she could rein in her anger. "I, of all people, would know when one of my closest friends is upset, and he's upset because of what you're doing to him right now. He doesn't know the answers because he's stressed, not because he's misbehaving!"

Pendall glared. "Check your tone, young lady, or I will not hesitate to hand you a reprimand on your file."

Reggie stilled at the threat. If she received that kind of comment on her file, her chances of getting into the university she wanted would be dramatically reduced. Trapped between sticking up for Twister, and looking after her future, she wasn't sure what to do, and Pendall took advantage of that.

"Sit down. You too, Maurice. For the remainder of this class, boy, you will complete this worksheet. If I find that you haven't completed the problems, you will receive detention for the week."

She shoved a large packet into Twister's hands, and pointed sternly to the vacant seat. Somehow, Twister managed to get his legs to obey, though he walked like a malfunctioning automaton, shaking badly, and almost tripping over as he made it to his desk. He sat back down, and grabbed his pen, and his tears didn't stop, as he stared at the paper before him.

Pendall continued her lecture as if nothing had happened. All those in the classroom who held concern for Twister quickly found she wouldn't tolerate their distracted whispers and stares, and many punishments were dealt out that day. Twister didn't notice any of it; he was lightheaded now from hyperventilating, and the problems on the page only made it worse, refusing once again to make sense to him.

He was an absolute wreck when the bell finally rang. Pendall took one look at him, and the untouched worksheet, and dealt out two weeks of detention, instead of the promised one. He took this in silence, save that wretched breathing, and left the classroom, long after everyone else had filed out.

Reggie was waiting outside, pacing in her agitation, and people wisely gave her a wide berth. As Twister walked out of the room, she stopped abruptly, rushing to his side, her eyebrows furrowing in sorrowful remorse.

"Twister," she began, reaching for his shoulders. "I'm so sorry..."

He pulled away, still in that autopilot mode. His eyes were lost, and peering into them, even for that brief moment, had made Reggie want to gather him up and hold onto him until the end of the world. It was the most vulnerable she had ever seen him, and she hated it; hated that Pendall couldn't see past Twister's shields, and notice just how sensitive he really was.

…

Otto heard Twister, long before he caught up to him.

Several alarmed students scurried past him, glancing back in the direction of the boy's bathroom in this hall. Otto shot by them, alarmed, with Reggie's warning playing over and over in his head:

_Get to him, Otto. Go. He needs your help._

The tortured cries coming from that bathroom served to compound the order, and he took the corner so hard, he ran into the wall, almost losing footing. He burst through the door next, heart hammering in his ears, and stared around the area with wide eyes.

Twister was at the far end of the room, and he was yelling at the top of his lungs. Yelling, and clawing at the mirror above the sink; clawing at himself. The tears Otto had seen minutes before were nothing in comparison to this; this was something new, and totally alien to him. His best friend was no longer in that room – he only had eyes for his torments now, and for whatever devil he saw in that mirror.

"Twister?" Otto whispered in dread.

Twister stopped. His hands froze, gripping the edges of the mirror. Then, his expression changed from despair, to absolute, violent hatred. He sneered at himself hatefully, and his hands slowly curled into fists.

_SLAM!_

Otto leaped out of his skin when, without warning, Twister lashed out at the mirror. It fractured under the impact, leaving spidery cracks everywhere, and distorting the image. Several pieces of glass came away with Twister's knuckles, embedded in the skin, while tiny droplets of blood spattered the sink below.

"You're _stupid!_" he shrieked. "STUPID fuck! You're stupid, Mau_rice!_ You're FUCKING STUPID! You shit. You useless piece of SHIT!"

He was screaming at the mirror, his voice trapped in a totally unbalanced and wild lilt. Otto couldn't take it anymore; he closed the distance between himself and Twister, just as the boy drew back and struck the mirror again. The impact was significantly worse, and blood poured from Twister's hands now. Otto felt some of it hit him, as he lunged and grabbed Twister from behind, pinning his arms, and dragging him away from the mirror. Twister thrashed in his hold, snarling again, but despite landing a few hits, could not break Otto's grip on him.

"Twister, stop it!" Otto yelled, his back crashing into the wall behind them. "STOP IT! Dude! That's enough! Do you hear me?! Jesus Christ, Twister, please stop!"

They both fell to the ground, and still, Otto held on like grim death, for he could feel, in Twister's motions, the desire to continue smashing mirrors. There was a full-height one across from them, on the far wall, and while Otto struggled to keep his friend under control, he got a better look at the madness in Twister – madness and panicked self-loathing, which occupied his spirit, in too-wide eyes that matched those of a shell-shocked soldier. His gaze was locked on himself, and grew more terrible and haunted with every passing second.

Otto had an idea then, and it was a terrible risk, for he wasn't sure what might happen if he let Twister get loose now. As a precaution, he managed to wrap one of his legs around Twister's knees, in a move that would have been both applauded and criticized by the school wrestling team. When he was certain he had this leverage secured, Otto released Twister's arms, and – as fast as he could – he quickly covered the boy's eyes with one hand, while holding the back of his head carefully with the other.

"Stop, Twister, just _stop_," he said evenly. "It's okay. It's _okay_."

For reasons that weren't entirely clear to Otto, this quickly brought much of the fight out of his friend. It almost made him bark out in hysterical laughter; he'd only thought of doing this because of some ridiculous snap-memory, of how young rabbits often completely calmed down when treated with this exact method. Restraining his trembling, Otto held on like this, feeling Twister's eyes close under his palm. The boy still strained a little where he lay, and his breathing was ragged and uneven, but he didn't try to squirm out of the hold.

"That's it," Otto breathed. "I gotcha, dude. You're okay."

There was a moment, where Twister seemed to realize what had happened, and the panic surged again. Another cry rose from Twister's throat – this one filled more with childish terror than feral rage. Otto's hand was now wet with tears, but he didn't care.

"_Shh_. Relax, Twist. You gotta try to calm down, alright?"

Twister stiffened. "O-Otto? Otto... is that you? Wh-what... what's going on?"

Otto almost called out in relief, for in Twister's voice, there was a returning hint of lucidity. "Hey. You back with me now?"

"Wh-what do you mean? Otto?" Twister paused, reaching up to try to pull his friend's hands away. "What are you doing?"

"No, don't look right now, okay? This is necessary, Twist. Trust me. And honestly, dude, you need to just chill a sec. Get your breathing back under control first, and then we can talk. Cool?"

"I-I guess...?"

Otto knew Twister was utterly confused, but the return of his cognition meant that Otto could now talk him into staying still. Carefully, he pulled himself away from Twister, going slowly, and never taking his hand from the boy's eyes. He directed Twister to sit up next, until the pair of them were propped up, side by side, with Otto still reaching over with that hand.

It took awhile for Twister to regain control of his breaths. He kept asking questions that worried Otto, too: Where was he, how long had he been here? Were they at school? Otto kept his answers short, uncertain how much time Twister had lost, and afraid that the wrong word could send him back into that terrifying, animal state.

"Ottoman?" Twister said, after a short silence.

"What's up?"

"My hands really hurt. Can you tell me what happened now? Please?"

Otto looked down, blinking, and suppressed a shiver as he recalled the shattering of the glass. "You kinda hit some stuff while you were out."

"Oh..."

"Yeah."

"Can you let go of my face now?"

Otto hesitated. "I'll let go," he agreed, "But you gotta keep your eyes closed until I say so. Deal?"

"But why?"

"Because... because I don't really know what's going on with you yet. So we gotta take things slowly."

Twister gulped audibly. "I'm scared."

"It'll be fine. Just keep your eyes closed. Ready?"

Twister nodded, and Otto carefully lowered his hand, watching Twister closely. He got up and crouched in front of the boy, then directed him to turn, so he wasn't facing any mirrors. Twister bore this patiently, trusting Otto.

"Alright, Twist. Relax. You can open your eyes now – just remember to take slow, deep breaths."

Twister complied, and Otto saw him go tense, as he regained his eyesight. There was no sign of that earlier loss of control, though there was still plenty of fear, as Twister blinked, and took in his surroundings. He stared down at his hands, perplexed, and winced as he gingerly flexed his fingers. He began to look further around himself, but Otto quickly stopped him.

"Don't look," he ordered firmly.

"What am I not looking at?" Twister asked quietly.

"Uh... it's not important-"

"Dude, please just _tell_ me. I don't like this. I feel like... like there's a monster in the room, and he's standing right behind me."

"There's no monster," Otto said, and thought to himself that this wasn't necessarily true; there had been a monster there, not long ago. "It's... it's just that, when you looked at the mirrors, you... um, you sort of... freaked out."

"...mirrors? Why... why would I do that?" Twister frowned, squinting at the jagged cuts in his hands. He plucked a small piece of glass out, hissing as he did, and went pale. "There's... Otto, dude, there's glass in my hands... there's glass. Why do I have glass in my hands?!"

"Easy, Twister. Remember to breathe," Otto instructed. "I'm gonna call Reggie, and we're gonna get you some help, alright? Just hang tight."

"Wait! Please, don't leave me alone-"

"I'm not going anywhere. Cell phones are a gift from the heavens."

"Heaven probably..." Twister replied.

Otto stared at him, puzzled by this apparently random, incomplete statement. Deciding he wouldn't press for now – especially since Twister didn't even seem _aware _that he'd said it – Otto drew his phone from his pocket, and speed-dialed Reggie. The thing barely rang before Reggie answered.

"Rocket Boy? Please tell me you found him. Sam and I have been looking everywhere-"

"Relax, Reg. I got him," Otto reassured her. "We're in the science building. Boy's bathroom. He's... okay now."

Reggie sensed his hesitation. "Define 'okay.'"

"I... don't know where to begin on that. He needs to go to the nurse, though."

"Why?"

"His hands are kinda... full of glass."

"WHAT?! Otto... why are you still there?! You should be taking him to the nurse-"

"Reg, _chill_. I need you and Sammy to come help, alright? Don't ask why. Just get here."

Otto didn't wait for a reply, hanging up as soon as he could. Truthfully, he wished he could have told Reggie everything that had just transpired, but he didn't want to freak Twister out. Not that Twister seemed to be listening; he was still sitting there, staring at his hands, fascinated and horrified.

"Reg and Sam are coming," Otto told him.

"They can make it stop, right?" Twister said vaguely. "Reg says..." he trailed off.

Otto waited for him to continue, a warning growing in his mind. "Twist?"

Twister didn't finish the sentence, or reply. He just kept staring, his mouth hanging open a little. Otto cautiously crouched by him again, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. Twister flinched at the contact, and for a moment, the reflection of the wilderness returned to his eyes, stopping Otto's heart in its tracks, and making him withdraw his hand. It was gone after a few seconds, but seeing that it was still present scared Otto almost as badly as the mirror attack had; it meant whatever was happening to Twister hadn't yet gone.

"Listen, buddy," Otto said gently, "Why don't you rest a little? Lean against the wall here, like this."

Twister licked his lips nervously, eyeing the wall. "Don't like it there."

"Why not, dude?"

"I don't wanna lean!"

"Okay. That's okay," Otto replied quickly. "You don't have to lean, then. But I want you to try closing your eyes again. Can you do that for me?"

"You're not gonna hit me?"

"Why would I hit you?"

Twister held up his hands, and gave Otto an accusatory glare. "We were fighting," he whispered. "_You_ want me to lean!"

Otto wasn't sure what about this scared him so much, but it put the fear of god right into his veins, like a direct drug injection. He searched Twister's eyes, still reading the suspicion and fear, and for a moment, he felt as if Twister might get up and try to hurt him – not out of hate, but out of some peculiar need for self-defense. Fighting for calm, Otto forced himself to remain in place.

"Twist, I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?" he said firmly. "You're my best bro. I want you to be okay."

Twister looked away abruptly, while Otto was still speaking. His eyes widened, and he drew in a sharp breath, startling and flinching back. Otto noted that he seemed to be tracking something – though, when he followed Twister's gaze, he saw only the bathroom stalls.

"What is it?" he prompted.

There was no reply, but as the seconds ticked by, Twister looked more and more frightened. A second flinch followed, and he began scooting back, his breathing growing sharper again.

"Twister, take it easy. You're freaking yourself out again. Breathe, dude. Just breathe."

"Otto, I don't like it here!" Twister blurted. "I don't like it. It's the wall, like the wall, it just... did we get homework? I don't remember, was there homework?"

Disturbed, Otto swallowed. "What's happening to you, Twist?" he asked softly, partially to himself. "Can you even hear me...?"

"Twister is _stupid!_ He's stupid. He's stupid! He's a stupid piece of shit!" Twister snarled back. "He's fucking stupid!"

The shout made Otto flinch this time. He struggled to ease his racing thoughts, but before he could try to form another plan of action, racing footsteps sounded behind him. He glanced back, and his heart soared with relief, as he saw Sam and Reggie enter the bathroom, both of them panting from their sprint. They stopped dead when they saw the mirror shards and blood everywhere, and heard Twister's continuing tirade against himself.

Reggie gawked. "Otto...?"

Rising and backing up from Twister, Otto drew the others aside, though none of them took their eyes off their friend. "I don't know what's happening to him," Otto confessed.

"You said he was okay-"

"No, I said I didn't know where to begin, and I really don't."

He gave them a condensed version of what he'd witnessed, starting from the moment he'd walked in on Twister screaming at himself in the mirror. By the end of it, Twister had stopped raging, and was now back to sitting and staring at his knuckles, while his friends watched him worriedly. Reggie looked as horrified as Otto felt, but Sam... Sam just looked deeply, painfully sad.

"God," he said quietly.

"What is it? You know what's wrong with him?" Otto demanded.

"He's psychotic," Sam went on, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "I think. I'm not a doctor."

"What the hell do you mean, 'psychotic'?! Like, he's gonna try to fucking _murder_ people for shits and giggles now?!"

"No, dude – that's psychopathy, and it's completely different from psychosis. Regardless of labels, though, this sounds like a severe case; he's _really_ sick, to put it bluntly. He needs medical attention, and needs it now."

"I'm on it," Reggie said at once. "Stay with him. I'll be back as soon as I can."

As Reggie left, Otto looked to Sam. "I need you to explain this to me, Squid," he said seriously. "What's psychosis?"

"In layman's terms? A complete mental breakdown," Sam replied. "If what Reggie told me is true, it was stress-induced. You mentioned he was shouting at his reflection and stuff, right? Like he saw something there, other than himself? It's possible he was hallucinating."

"And that's a symptom?"

"Yes, among other things... disrupted and confused speech patterns and delusions are also common."

Otto paled. "He thought his hands were hurt because he'd been fighting with me," he said weakly.

Sam didn't reply. He began making his way cautiously over to Twister, observing his friend's facial features and body language. Otto followed uncertainly, and both boys stopped when Twister looked up sharply at them. There was a distance in his gaze now, but he didn't snap or scream at them, instead tilting his head curiously.

"Hi, Sammy," he greeted, smiling a little.

"Hey, Twist," Sam replied, returning the grin, as he crouched in front of Twister. "How are you?"

"Um... I'm okay," Twister paused. "What are we doing here?"

"Well, buddy, there's a bit of a problem. But Reggie's taking care of it, so we're waiting for her to come back."

Twister giggled. "Reggie was here? This looks like the boy's bathroom!"

"It is. But it's okay for anyone to come in if it's an emergency."

"Oh... there's an emergency?"

Sam grimaced. "Yeah. Yeah, there is. But don't worry. We're gonna sit tight until she returns. Okay?"

Twister studied him, losing his grin. "You're making it up."

"Jesus," Otto mumbled, in sick awe at the abrupt change in his friend's attitude.

"Jesus didn't make it up, you did!" Twister said, frowning. "There's glass."

Before Otto could stop him, or distract him, Twister looked to his left; looked right into the mirror. In a split second, another snarl appeared on his face.

"He's a dumbass," he spat. "He's a fucking stupid shit! Stupid piece of _shit!_"

"Hey," Otto quickly moved in, setting his hand over Twister's eyes again. "No, Twister. Don't look, okay?"

Sam watched with interest, as Twister's posture instantly relaxed again, and the sneer on his lips faded into serenity. "How'd you figure that one out?"

"Luck, and a really dumb thought. I'll tell you later."

"Who's there?" Twister asked. "Lars?"

"No, buddy, it's me," Otto replied. "Remember what I said about looking at the mirror?" he gently directed Twister to turn his head. "I'm gonna move my hand now, alright?"

"Okay. Otto?"

"Yeah, dude?"

"Where are we?"

Otto traded glances with Sam, and both boys suddenly felt old and tired. "This is the boy's bathroom, in the science building," Sam explained patiently, as Otto removed his hand. "Do you remember how you got here?"

Twister blinked, examining the area. "Not... not really, no. Was I at the Shore Shack?"

"Not recently, I don't think. Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

Twister hummed. "I feel weird. Is... is it normal to hear stuff that I can't see?"

"What kind of stuff do you hear?"

"It's a really pretty song. I don't like the voice, though. He's really mad."

Sam sat down in front of Twister now, engaging him in the conversation. "Who's mad?"

"The ugly guy in the mask. I can't see him right now, but he's there," Twister frowned. "You can't hear?"

"No, buddy, I can't. But that's okay."

"I'm not crazy."

"No," Sam agreed. "You're not crazy. But you're not very well, either."

"I'm sick? Oh, no... we have a hockey game soon. Otto's not gonna be happy if I can't play."

There was no hockey game any time soon. Otto swallowed hard, trying to still his racing heart. "It's alright, Twister," he croaked, "I'm not mad."

Twister stared hopefully up at him. "You're not mad? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to ruin your ramp, Conroy. Please, I'm really sorry. They threw trash at me. And don't tell anyone," his voice dropped to a whisper, "But I'm still scared of things flying at me. I'm still scared of them! They looked like they were gonna burn me, all those skaters. It hurt so _bad_. It hurt! I didn't know how to say it, because I was being punished, and you're not supposed to say anything when you're being punished. But all punishments feel like that now. You won't let them burn me, right, Conroy? Please. I'm sorry. Please make them stop, please," Twister was begging now; crying. He began to rock himself, whining and gripping at his ears.

Otto struggled to reply, giving Sam time to stop him, with a subtle shake of his head. Trusting Sam to know better, Otto let his responses fall away, instead attempting to smile for Twister. It came only as a grimace.

"Twister," Sam began carefully, "Why didn't you tell anybody how you felt about that?"

Twister gave him a tooth-bearing, humorless grin. "Because it's not right, Sammy. I'm bad! I'm not a good person. I'm stupid. I wanna die, okay?" he looked Sam right in the eyes, earnest and anxious. "I wanna die now. Is that okay, Sam? I don't wanna be here. They killed me."

"Who killed you?" Sam asked, fighting to hide his trembling.

"The people who threw things. And the teachers! They threw things, but those things weren't real. How do people throw things without them being real? I don't know, but it hurt, all the same. They killed me really slowly. And now I'm dead! I'm dead. Twister was stupid. Fucking idiot!" he began to giggle again, mirthless and hysterical. "Fucking idiot."

"Why do you think you're an idiot?" Sam forced himself to ask.

"Because it's true!" Twister snapped, losing all semblance of laughter or smirking. "It's true. The teachers wouldn't have said so if it wasn't. Everybody says so. Even me! That's important. I'm not important – that's not what I mean, okay? It's important because I don't wanna be me anymore."

"But why not? Reggie, Otto and I all like you, even if you sometimes mess up."

"That's not true. Don't lie! Don't. Not to me, Sammy," Twister drew in a shaky breath, and tears fell down his face, though he didn't seem aware of them. "Not to me. Please."

"Okay," Sam whispered. "Alright. I'll try not to... not to lie to you. I'm not perfect though – sometimes I make mistakes, and that's okay. Are you allowed to make mistakes, too?"

"No! No, I'm not. Scum doesn't get to make mistakes! Scum is worthless, for the trash can, like the trash pieces! They knew what I was before I did," Twister said, eyes widening with his distorted conclusion. "They knew it, Sammy! I think you did, too. Everybody knew, because I'm stupid. Fucking stupid! Make sure you kill me, before it gets worse. I don't want anybody to suffer."

Otto turned away. He didn't want to hear this anymore; didn't want to see or witness just how out of his mind Twister was right now. Sam wished he could join Otto, but he refused to leave Twister alone for a moment.

"Why do you think people will suffer?"

"Suffer?" Twister repeated, confused.

"Yeah. You said you didn't want anybody to suffer."

Twister stared at him, and Sam saw lucidity returning again. "Wh-when did I say that? Sammy? What's going on? I'm scared."

"I know, buddy. It's gonna be okay."

"How... how did I get here?"

And ever on, did it go. Twister's breaks came in waves, crashing in like an unpredictable sea, and each time, his ravings grew more and more erratic and detached from reality. Sam held steadfast to his unorthodox Socratic method, always questioning Twister, and rarely moving to directly challenge his many delusions and worries. Eventually, though, Twister fell silent, and began eyeing the pair with deep mistrust. Nothing either Sam or Otto said would stir him from this state, and the knew then that their friend had departed.

They could only hope it wasn't for good.

…

For two months, there was little change.

Twister had been taken directly into psychiatric care, following his breaking. For a week or so after that, nobody outside the Rodriguez household had any idea what was happening with him, and concerns or questions directed at his parents yielded only empty, sad looks and silence. Then, one day, during a glum lunch at the Shore Shack, they had been approached by Lars; a very worn-out Lars, who told them the situation. They were allowed to visit their friend, but only under strict guidance, and for limited hours.

He was much the same for each visit – sometimes completely lucid, and sometimes just gone. Lucidity was also putting it a little strongly, for the boy had been placed on enough anti-psychotic medication to render him zombie-like and lifeless, when he wasn't overpowered by delusions. A husk of his former self existed in his place, and he barely knew when his friends spoke to him.

After a month of this, Sandy Rodriguez took to frequent visits with Violet Stimpleton, and sometimes Paula Dullard or Noelani Rocket. It was never revealed what went on during these long 'coffee talks', but it was clear that Sandy was reaching out for support. Everyone moved to help, and even managed to bring Raoul into it, as well.

Lars took his brother's place for important games. None of the Rocket gang questioned this, and there was no ill-will between the two parties – only an understanding, mutual and powerful, that prevented everything from breaking apart.

Mrs. Pendall took a leave of absence, not long after word got out around the school about what had happened to Twister. Reggie, in particular, didn't feel an ounce of sympathy for the woman, at first, but her resentment died out when she learned of the teacher's dismissal at the request of Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez. Even if the punishment was suitable, the idea of someone suffering guilt at any punishment now reminded them all of just how long Twister had been harboring his self-destructive thoughts.

Two months passed, yes, and the days were dreary. Not a family vacation or outing could completely raise the spirits of the three teens, for there was always that painful absence to think of. When would their friend return? Would he _ever_ return? The idea of Twister being permanently broken was terrible and heartbreaking for them.

That same hurt almost drove Otto into hysterics, when he saw a hospital-marked van pull up to the Rodriguez household one day. He was staring out his window, his mind nowhere near the homework that lay before him, and he only barely registered the presence of the van. When the words penetrated his brain, he became alert, and when the back door opened, and revealed a familiar figure, he was up, bolting through the house and down the stairs.

"Whoa! Rocket Boy, what's going on?!" Ray called, as Otto rushed by.

"It's Twister! Twister's back!"

Reggie, sitting on the couch with her dad, sat upright, her eyes wide, before she promptly followed her brother out the front door.


	42. Chapter 41

_A/N: Obligatory corny sci-fi with shitty horror._

* * *

"Otto, I need you to focus," Ray said firmly, grasping his son's shoulders. "Where's Twister?"

Otto shivered, his teeth chattering, even though he wore a blanket, and there was no chill anywhere near here. He stared around the room, still in something of a state of shock, and saw he wasn't quite alone in his fears; there was fright in the faces of those around him, as well. Ray and Noelani were closest, leaning over him protectively, while Tito, Sam and Reggie hovered just beyond.

Past them were many other familiar faces, belonging to those who had managed to evacuate to the shelter in time: There were Eddie and Oliver, trying to ease their tensions with a game of checkers. Near them stood Trish and Sherry, glued close to their families, in a circle that had been in the midst of conversation, prior to Otto's arrival. Conroy was here, too, standing with Pi, Sputz and Animal, which struck Otto as odd; why was Lars not among them?

He let his eyes drift further over the gathered, finding comfort in this little head count, and eventually, his gaze came to rest on three more people – three whom, among all here, currently carried the most fear:

The Rodriguez family.

"Twister," Otto blurted, his breath catching. "Twister, he... he was..."

"Deep breaths, Otto," Ray told him. "Just tell us where he is."

"He was behind me... right behind me! And then he... god..."

"Where did you last see him? It's important you tell us, okay? Tice and Shirley are out there looking for him, and they need your help."

Otto looked stricken, meeting his father's eye. "We were by that gun store," he answered. "He said they were coming, that we wouldn't make it if we tried to run... and then he said... he told me to run for the shelter."

"He went into the gun store?"

"Y-yes," Otto gulped. "He led them in there... he _called_ to them, and they followed him... god, dad, they followed him. He made them follow him, on purpose."

Ray didn't need to look back to know that Tito had lunged for the radio. Otto watched him go, and heard him as if from far away, trying to raise Tice and Shirley, to report Twister's location. Ray and Noelani began whispering comforts, but Otto couldn't quite register these, either, as a horrible reality began to take shape in his mind: He had left Twister behind. He'd abandoned his best friend to the mercy of... whatever those _things_ out there were.

He paled, the guilt eating from within. "I left him," he said bluntly. "I-I... I left him... why did I leave him?!"

Before anyone could try to reassure him, and before his panic spiked, the radio burst into life.

"We have him! I say again, we have Twister!" Shirley yelled, over the distorted sounds of gunshots and worse. "Heading back your way now. Get ready to cover us for entry!"

A murmur of hope rose up around the room, infecting all. Sandy Rodriguez gave a cry of hysterical relief, and was only stopped from rushing to the door by the firm hands of her oldest son and her husband. Otto watched them hold her close, and caught snippets of Spanish, but looked away, feeling as if he were intruding upon something sacred. He was the only one who remained on edge; whether it was because of his close call, or because of the guilt, he wasn't sure, but he knew he wouldn't feel better until he saw Twister.

By the door, a pair of armed Coast Guards began unsealing the bolts that separated the room from the world outside. They raised their sidearms as soon as the portal was opened, prepared to fire at anything that looked even slightly out of the ordinary. With the opening, there came clear echoes – echoes of shouts, more gunfire... and the bone-chilling, guttural cries of of the beasts beyond, the sound of which set the hair on the back of Otto's neck straight up.

The room went deathly quiet. All eyes were glued to that door; no one dared breathe.

It made the sudden, authoritative, unmistakable _BOOM_ of a shotgun that much louder. Several people jumped, and Sam may or may not have let out a high-pitched squeak. One of the Coast Guards readied himself to shut the door, while his companion kept his weapon trained on the gap.

"INBOUND!" came a wild yell outside. "INBOUND!"

Tice's bellow echoed around the room, and a second later, he appeared through that gap, turned, and covered the door, raising a rifle in front of him. He was puffing like a steam train, and his clothes were covered in sweat, dirt, and what looked far too much like blood. This sight made everyone in the room back away instinctively, with adults sheltering children and teens.

"Tice?" Raoul called, his panic rising, "Where is he? Where is Maurice?!"

"They're coming," Tice answered breathlessly. "Everyone, stay where you are."

Another colossal bang from the shotgun shook their bones, and another shout followed, very close now. It was Shirley, and as the howls and screeches of the things outside increased their tempo, she appeared... with Twister close behind her.

They were both in a similar state to Tice, and _both_ wielding weapons – Shirley, with an officer's MP5, and Twister, bearing an impressive shotgun, trotting backwards, with the tactical stock pressed to his shoulder. He was limping, and seemed a little worse off than his adult companions... but he was _alive_.

"Get the door!" Shirley barked. "Close it, NOW!"

Tice and his friend threw themselves behind the steel, pushing with all their might, and they were joined by the other Coast Guard a moment later. Shirley and Twister both backed up and covered the door, as the bolts screamed protest over the shrinking gap.

That scream was answered in kind.

Shirley and Twister fired together, the MP5 barking in short bursts, and the shotgun roaring, drowning out all other sound, and shaking both onlooker and wielder alike. Some shape briefly flashed at the gap, and the scream changed pitch as bullets struck. Then, with one last, desperate shove, Tice and his crew slammed the door closed, cutting off that hideous sound.

Shirley lowered her weapon at once. "All clear," she sighed. "Thanks, lieutenant."

She and Tice exchanged a nod of respect, before Shirley turned to face Twister – and froze.

Twister hadn't lowered his weapon with Shirley. His aim was fixed fast on the door, and his eyes were wide and unblinking, while his breath came short and fast. Tice and the Coast Guards moved out of his line of fire immediately, raising their hands, but Twister didn't track their movement; his eyes were for the door alone.

The inhabitants of the bunker all watched him now, but he didn't take notice. He just kept on aiming, ignoring the numerous, weeping lacerations all over his body, as well as the massive bruise of inexperience on the shoulder where the shotgun stock rested. One got the sense that, had he been alone, he might have stood on guard there, forever, or until he ran out of ammunition.

When the door had closed, Shirley had gained a look of relief and triumph. Both disappeared fast as she watched the teen, and eventually, she stepped up close to him, bringing a hand up to the shotgun.

"Easy, son," she said, clearly and slowly. "They're gone now. You made it."

Twister didn't reply. He did, however, flinch badly at the faint sound of screeching from outside. His aim traveled sharply in the direction it had come from, and everyone in the room drew back in alarm. Twister's heavy breathing worsened, and he began openly crying, with silent tears of terror cascading down his face.

Shirley didn't take her eyes off him for a second, but called back to Tice. "Lieutenant. You got any of your Xanax or Valium prescription around here? Poor kid might need them."

Tice turned beet red, but nodded, all the same, and began making his way carefully over to the supplies he'd managed to stash into the room, less than a day ago. He went for a particular plastic crate, digging about, and eventually drew up two boxes. Shirley saw them out of the corner of her eye, and beckoned, but didn't dare let it distract her.

"Twister, honey?" she called, "We've got some medicine we'd like you to take. It'll help you relax a little bit, but before I give it to you, I need you to put down the gun. Okay?"

Again, Twister gave no clear indication that he'd even heard her. He'd begun to shake, both adrenaline and injury taxing his body to the extremes. Shirley's expression darkened.

"Listen to me, kiddo," she continued, "I'm gonna lower the gun. I need you to focus on the sound of my voice now: Remember that you're safe. You're secure. Those things can't get you here – you don't need your weapon right now."

"They're coming." Twister's voice was tight and hoarse, barely above a whisper.

"Not anymore, they're not. You killed them, hun. You fought _damn_ well today," Shirley replied immediately, with passion. "I know there are more out there, and you don't want them to come in, but that door is as reliable as your weapon. You understand? You are _safe_. You can rest now, Twister."

With agonizing slowness, Shirley moved in, and began easing the weapon away from Twister. She continued soothing him, instructing him to breathe, and never for a moment slowing or stopping her speech. For a moment, Twister tightened his hold on the shotgun, scared to death to lose the one security that had protected him and saved his life thus far. Eventually, though – with Shirley's reassurances – he conceded to release it into her hold.

"_Good_, Twister!" Shirley encouraged, immediately passing the gun behind her to one of the Coast Guards. "There's a good boy. You did so good. I'm proud of you, you know that? But now you gotta try to relax. I want you to try to sit down, okay? You can sit right here, or-"

Twister suddenly moved, quick as lightning, and Shirley had to suppress a curse, as he sped to the nearest wall. He slammed into it with his back, and his eyes – wide, wild, and far from the present – darted all over his surroundings. He pressed himself into the concrete, as if he wanted nothing more than to pass through it.

"Twister. Twister, it's _okay!_" Shirley told him, raising her hands. "You're okay. Focus on me, alright? You're safe. Your friends and family are here. I'm here. Those critters are gone now. You hear me, son? Your mom, dad and brother are all here, safe," Shirley looked to the Rodriguez family then, locking eyes with Sandy, and gave an unspoken prompt.

Sandy, weeping with both fright and relief for her son, took the hint, and called out. "Mi hijo? Listen to Officer Shirley. You're safe now."

There was no recognition in Twister's eyes. His right hand went to the nearly-depleted shell bandolier that lay across his chest, from where he'd first picked it up in the gun shop. With shaking fingers, he quickly drew a shell, the move practiced from god knew how many times he'd fired that shotgun today. His other hand started searching for the weapon frantically, to load it, and the longer he went without finding it, the worse his fear became. He dared not look down, for many of his current wounds had come from such a deadly mistake.

Shirley and Tice exchanged looks again, meaning passing between them, as they tried to work out how to best approach the boy. After a moment, inspiration came to Shirley, and she looked back into the crowd of people, seeking one particular individual, until her gaze settled on Otto.

Otto, like everyone else, had been watching this development with unease and fear. He wanted nothing more than to run to his friend – maybe to apologize, or to tell him all was well – but didn't know whether this was the best idea, given Twister's current lack of focus. He kept eyeing the wounds on Twister's body, noticing that the way Twister held himself suggested he was in pain.

Shirley made a decision then, and picked her way over to him, letting Tice take over for a moment. "Otto?" she said, as she came close, "I need you to try to speak with him."

Ray heard this, and immediately placed himself between his son and Shirley. "No."

"Big Ray-"

"Absolutely not. Twister's not in his right mind, Shirl. I can't risk him harming Otto."

"I understand that. But we need to calm him down, or else things could get a lot uglier than they are right now," Shirley argued. "Right now, he's coming down from battle, and we need to ground him somehow – get him to recognize that there's no threat," she paused, hesitating at her next words. "He's still out there, Ray. He didn't come all the way back with us yet. Think of him... think of him like a war veteran."

"That's exactly the problem. He's dangerous-"

"Dad."

Otto's quiet voice interrupted the impending fight, and Ray turned, startled. He took in Otto's expression; the seriousness of the way his son held himself now. Moving to him, Ray crouched down in front of him.

"Otto," Ray began, "I know you want to help Twister. I know you're scared for him – I am, too. But right now, he's not all there. He could seriously injure you, or even kill you, without even knowing he was doing so."

"He's scared, too, dad. Let me at least try to talk to him."

Ray sighed heavily, rubbing his chin with anxious indecision. As he began to ponder his fears, however, a hand rested on his shoulder, and he looked around, to find Reggie gazing down at him.

"Twister's our friend," she said simply. "What if that was Otto, or me, instead of him? You'd want to do anything to help us."

Ray was silent for a moment, as he glanced between his two children. For the first time in his life, he regretted that he'd raised them to be so damn caring.

"Alright," he conceded. "Go. But _don't_ get too close! Twister has _killed_, Otto – you'd do well to remember that, at all times."

Otto nodded, already rising. As he followed Shirley through the mass, people whispered and stared, but he ignored their doubts, focusing only on Twister. As he came clear of the crowd, and stood at a halt alongside Tice, Twister's eyes locked onto to him. The look there remained the same, for a moment, but the more time that passed, the more his awareness gradually forced its way up. Otto knew the time was right when Twister's hand finally stopped seeking that shotgun.

Otto took a step forward. "Hey, Twist," he greeted. "It's me. It's Otto. How you doing, man?"

Twister blinked, his forehead creasing. "O-Otto? Ottoman...?"

"Yeah, that's right."

"Thought I told you to run," Twister said gruffly, scowling abruptly. "Why are you still here, dude?! You gotta run, they're coming!"

"No, Twist. I escaped, remember? You stayed behind – you got them off my back," Otto hesitated then, trying to swallow his guilt away. "You saved my _life_, Twister."

Fear clouded Twister's features. "Why did you come back?"

"I didn't. You escaped, too. I mean, shit, Twister, you came through that door like... like Rambo, or something! Didn't know you had it in you, dude."

"They didn't like the shotgun," Twister said suddenly, giving him an unbalanced grin. "The pistol, they didn't stop. Didn't care. But the shotgun scares them. They get _scared_. I didn't know monsters could do that! I screamed back at one and it didn't like that, either. They're scary... but I'm scarier!"

"Easy," Otto held up his hands, halting the peculiar tirade. "You did good. But you gotta try to chill now, alright? You're gonna wipe out hard if you don't."

Twister frowned. "I can't rest if they're close."

"You can if you're in a safe spot. You remember Sam's video game, the one with magic and swords and shit? It's just like that. You're in a town, dude. You can rest here."

"It's not like video games," Twister said quietly, paling. "I killed them. I-it wasn't like a game at all. They were trying to kill me, too... so I killed them first."

"I know, buddy. I'm sorry."

"Otto?"

"Yeah?"

"Can I have my shotgun back, please? I don't wanna die."

Otto grimaced. "You're not gonna die, okay? You're safe. You don't need the gun right now."

"Please? I'm... I'm scared. I don't like them, Otto."

"I know. I know. But Tice and Officer Shirley are both here, and they have friends with guns who'll all protect you. Besides, look at your shoulder, dude. Don't you want a break?"

"I-I... I guess so," Twister looked down at himself then, clarity slowly claiming him again, as he saw his injuries. He winced as he pried at his own shoulder. "I'm hurt."

"Yeah, you're hurt. Once you sit down and rest, though, we can patch you up."

"I looked down. I shouldn't have done that. It hurt me when I did that. Then I shot it. I shot it, and its head was gone."

He looked back up again, the memory playing behind his gaze, but not long after that, it was gone, and the present struck him, hard. He began to actually _see_ Otto, and following that, looked around the shelter, realizing he was surrounded not by monsters, but by people – _familiar_ people. When he finally saw his family, that was it, and they all felt hope surge, as recognition came at last.

"Mama?" he whispered.

Sandy couldn't take it. They way he'd said it – with such desperate, childish disbelief – broke her heart, and she, in turn, broke free from the group, openly sobbing. Twister flinched a little as she began to run towards him, but it was more reflex than anything else, and he took one hesitant step towards her. Then another, and another. Tice and Shirley both tensed, ready to grab him, should force be necessary.

It wasn't necessary. Sandy reached for him, as he did her, and mother and son embraced tightly, both shaking from head to toe, and Twister began to cry.

…

The teens in the shelter all gathered in their own corner. Cards had been brought out, hours ago, but no one was really playing. Night had fallen outside, with no sign or word of activity from the creatures dying down any time soon. Tito had made contact with other shelters, as well as the military, and determined that Ocean Shores had been sealed off, while a slow and steady purge of the invasion began. The army would be here in two days, give or take a complication or two, and in the meantime, they were all stuck.

Sherry moodily threw down a card across from Sam. "Could be worse," she muttered, to no one in particular. "We could all go crazy. Maybe pick up our own shotguns; start talking to stuff that's not there."

"Sherry," Trish cautioned.

"Well! I don't like being stuck here with those things out there," she paused. "I don't like being stuck here with _him_, either."

Sam, Reggie and Otto all stiffened.

"It's not his fault," Reggie replied coldly. "He went through hell, and he saved my brother's life. You could at least show some respect."

"Don't get me wrong, Reg – I _do_ respect that he did that, and I doubt any of us could have been that brave. But he's out of his mind. You _saw_ his eyes. Officer Shirley is right, he's like a war veteran. A war veteran who comes home and shoots his family because he got sick."

"He's traumatized," Sam agreed, "But that doesn't mean he's going to try to hurt us. He's familiar with this place now. Besides... one of those Coast Guards is a veteran, too. So is Mr. Stimpleton. Now that Twist's back to himself a little bit, they'll be able to work with him. And I doubt he'll snap again – not unless those things come in here. Which, given the strength of the walls and door, is extremely unlikely."

"I hope you're right, Squid," Otto sighed.

"He's strong, Otto. Believe it. After today, I'm certainly willing to believe he can do anything. I never thought I'd see _Twister_, of all people, toting a _shotgun_."

"He's full of all kinds of surprises," Trish remarked, smiling lightly. "I seem to remember you guys coming home from a crazy Grand Canyon trip – one where he saved all your asses from Mama Nature. Kid's a wild card. He'll bounce back."

"And he has us to help him. And his family," Reggie said.

They all looked across the room. There, in another quiet corner, the Rodriguez family rested together. Raoul and Lars sat back to back, both propped up and fast asleep. Sandy was leaning against the wall, wide awake, her gaze tired and distant. And lying down, with his head in her lap, knees drawn up, was Twister.

Sandy was petting back his hair in a slow, gentle, nonstop rhythm, as if stopping would steal her son away from her again. Twister was deeply asleep now, dragged under by Valium and post-adrenaline burnout. He'd been this way for all those long hours, ever since they had calmed him, and Tice had patiently explained that he would be out for some time still, to recover. Indeed, the boy had hardly stirred when he injuries were being examined, cleaned and bandaged.


	43. Chapter 42

"Have I mentioned yet that I'm sharing a cabin with Trish and Sherry?" Reggie asked, far too innocently.

Otto rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah. Rub it in, Rocket Girl."

"Hey, at least you got to bunk in with familiar faces," said Sam. "I don't know any of the guys in my cabin. Though they're friendly enough, I guess-"

"You and Twist got screwed! I still don't see why we can't choose. I want my best bro and the Squid."

"That's probably why we don't get to choose," Reggie said dryly.

"It's like assigned seats at school," Twister said glumly. "You guys get put next to shoobies, and I get Josh Grody or something."

Reggie frowned at his reference to his bully. This was the first time Twister spoken in awhile, and he looked anxious and depressed, moodily poking a stick at the empty fire pit. She suspected his fear had something to do with his selection of cabin mates; the five boys he'd been saddled with were all within the same clique, and from what Reggie had seen of them, they were a little rough and rude. She reached out and squeezed Twister's shoulder reassuringly.

"Don't sweat it, Twist," she said kindly. "I'm sure once you get to know them, they'll warm up to you."

Twister sighed. "I thought I was gonna have fun on this trip, but now it's just lame. What if... what if they gang up on me or something? I don't want a repeat of sophomore year."

"It'll be okay. The cabins are only a place to sleep, anyway. You'll be spending most of the time with us, and if anyone tries to give you grief, they'll have a lot to answer for."

She pounded a fist into her palm, only half-kidding. This successfully drew a smile from Twister, even if it was a halfhearted one. Sam and Otto, however, traded uneasy looks with each other, then with Reggie.

Sophomore year had been an absolute nightmare for their friend, thanks to Josh Grody and his gang. They had beaten or teased Twister almost daily, and it had taken a rough toll on him. He was less confident, and more skittish, always looking over his shoulder, and he'd become quieter. At one point, mid-year, there had been a school trip not unlike this one. Somehow, Twister had been grouped with Grody and his friends, and for the entire two-day excursion, they ruthlessly tormented him.

None of the Rocket gang liked to think about it, because it had been a breaking point. It was after that trip that mysterious injuries began showing up on Twister's arms – injuries that weren't from beatings. When confronted about it, Twister had been quick to deny it, and the scars had stopped showing up, but they all knew what he'd done to himself – what he still sometimes did to himself, when he wasn't feeling good.

It was a risk for him here, they realized, and they silently resolved, together, to help him feel safe, in any way they could.

…

Sam and Otto struggled to keep still, and – more importantly – keep quiet. Sam almost squeaked out when Reggie's foot dug into his ribs, but he suppressed it in time, gritting his teeth.

"What do you see?" Otto hissed at his sister.

Reggie clung onto the windowsill for dear life, trying to stand on her toes without hurting the guys too much. The cabin window was just a little too high, and it made looking in like this extremely uncomfortable. She wasn't about to quit, though; none of them were. It was time to get to the bottom of this, for Twister's sake.

Inside the building, there came a series of raucous cheers and applause. Following it, there was a cry – so faint it might not have happened at all. But the trio had heard it; heard the weak pain and misery in it, and the way it was muffled. Doubly determined now to see what was going on, Reggie planted her hands on the sill again, and hauled up as far as she could go.

Success. She had a good view of the interior, and there was no worry about getting caught, because five backs were turned to the window. Those five were too preoccupied to look away now, the target of their attention being on the opposite end of the building.

Reggie gasped. Twister was in bad shape; he'd been stripped to his underwear, and his hands were bound above his head by cloth and cord, so that he was hanging from one of the rafters, his feet only just brushing against the floor. Someone had wrapped up a pillowcase around his head as a blindfold, and his mouth was haphazardly sealed shut, with duct tape.

This was hardly the worst of it; he was _covered_, head to toe, in all manner of welts, bruises, cuts and burns, and there was blood all over him, long-dried rivulets running down from open wounds. It was clear that he'd been here for hours already, because he was exhausted, his head hanging limply. It was also clear the the boys in the cabin were far from done with him. They had beers and snacks open, as if this torture session was little more than a TV show.

One of the boys opened another beer, and stood up, raising it in a toast. "To Maurice Rodriguez!" he cried mockingly, "For being such a good sport. Only passed out twice!"

His friends cheered and drank, while the boy sauntered over to Twister. With one hand, he grabbed Twister's hair, yanking his head back, and with the other, he began pouring beer over Twister's face. Twister only had time to cry out once, before he began choking, the cry dying out in an awful gurgling and spluttering sound, as beer entered his nose and mouth around the tape.

Reggie almost gave her position away, teetering on the backs of the other two.

"Reg, stay _still!_" Otto warned.

"They're torturing him!" Reggie hissed back. "We have to get in there!"

She let herself drop then, and the boys sighed in relief. Otto glanced up in time to see Reggie starting for the other side of the cabin, and he lunged, grabbing her by the ankle. She went down in the grass, and to her credit, made no sound at all. Otto bore the violent gaze she cast back at him.

"There's _five_ of them," he reminded her. "We need backup."

"Maybe we should call the counselors-" Sam began.

"No," Reggie said, her voice shaking. "There's no time. I told you, Sammy, they're in there _torturing_ him! He's tied up by his wrists, to the _ceiling_."

Sam paled, his eyes bugging out. "What."

"Trish and Sherry," Reggie went on, almost to herself. "And Natalia, Ursula and Fen, if they're there... you guys need to stay here," she instructed firmly. "_Wait_ for me to return. I won't be long."

"Good luck, Reg," the pair chorused.

Reggie was gone, on her feet and bolting, as fast as she could sprint, making a beeline for her cabin. Sam and Otto got up off the ground with considerably more grumbling, but they couldn't complain for long; they could faintly hear the boys in Twister's cabin still. Otto hesitated, hating that the next cry he heard belong to a desperately gasping Twister.

He grabbed Sam suddenly, taking advantage of his friend's confusion to position him facing away from the wall, directly under the window.

"Oh, no," Sam groaned. "Not again..."

"Shh. Give me a lift up."

Sam rolled his eyes, but complied, with effort. Otto was still shorter than Reggie, but he was bulkier when it came to muscles, and Sam strained, trying hard to keep his balance, as Otto clambered on top of his shoulders. Otto didn't need to copy Reggie's earlier move when he reached the top, for Sam remained standing, if a little unsteadily. Pressing his face to the glass, Otto peeked in.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "Holy fucking shit... Twister..."

All the boys were pouring beers on Twister now, and he was thrashing and convulsing under this unorthodox waterboard technique. His tormentors didn't care, and every time he moved a little too much, one of them would strike him, hard, punching him in the gut.

"Man, you don't seem to like your drink, Maurice," one of them sneered.

"He needs stuff to go down with it. What do spics like to eat?"

"You mean aside from shit?"

"Nah, fuck, man, that's _way_ too nasty for me. How about spicy stuff? Got some chili powder in here someplace..." Another boy began digging in his duffel bag, and a moment later, punched the air as he drew out a small spice bottle. "How much do you want, beaner-boy?" he crowed, standing and grabbing Twister by the chin. "You hungry? Huh?"

Twister howled fearfully through the tape in response, scared out of his mind, and the sound, above all else, made Otto feel sick to his stomach.

"Get the fucking tape off him first, you moron, or else we'll kill him."

"Good!"

"No, not good. I'm not going to jail for this little pussy."

"You'd do better than he would. Check this out. I'm gonna call this... Tex-Mex."

Unscrewing the lid, the boy with the powder licked his finger, all the way to the knuckle, then dipped it in, coating it in red dust. He grinned toothily, and, walking like he was heading to any ordinary task, he moved around behind Twister, and tugged down the boy's underwear, exposing his backside. Before Otto could process what this meant, the tormentor forcefully inserted his finger into his victim's anus.

Twister _screamed_ through the tape – an animalistic, high-pitched shriek, that devolved into agonized wailing. Otto toppled backwards in shock, and Sam went with him, both boys falling gracelessly, and slamming into the side of the cabin.

"What the fuck was that?" came the shout from within.

"Shit! We gotta bail, Sammy!" Otto squeaked, scrambling to his feet, only to trip over Sam.

They both scrambled, as thundering footsteps raced through the cabin. The door on the other side burst open, and the shouting began. Just as Otto and Sam got to their feet, they found themselves surrounded, on both sides, by all five of Twister's cabin-mates.

"Well, well! What's going on here?"

"Looks like Maurice's little friends have come to join his party."

Otto and Sam backed up against the wall of the building, instantly on defense, and staring desperately into each hostile face.

"You been watching?" one of them laughed. "You like what we did with him? How about you come say hello?"

Before either boy could react, they were grabbed. They began struggling at once, but were outnumbered, and even Otto's kicking and swearing didn't deter the group, as they force-marched their new captives around to the front, shoving them into the cabin.

"Maurice!" one of them sing-songed. "We brought you a present!"

Twister was still sobbing in pain, and he flinched as the group re-entered the cabin. Sam and Otto were brought to the center of the room, and made to kneel, before one of the boys ripped the blindfold away from Twister's eyes, and gripped him by the ears, forcing him to look up. Blinded by tears, with one eye swollen almost shut from a nasty bruise, Twister could barely see... but his friends saw the recognition in his eyes.


	44. Chapter 43

Twister bit back a cry, as yet another puck struck him. He tried to hold his position, out of pride more than anything else, but so many strikes had come his way now, and his body was covered in harsh bruises and welts. He spat out another mouthful of blood, and ignored his-still bleeding nose.

His 'friends' had no pity. Nor did anyone else watching this game – this odd social punishment. He knew he had fucked up, big time; knew that he'd been weak, to take one too many drinks the way he did; knew it had been wrong, to attack the one person he shouldn't have:

The kid in the wheelchair.

Twister didn't even know his name – only that the guy had been mocking him all evening long. Mocking his lifestyle, his appearance... and his family.

That was when Twister had lost it: When that sneering boy had insulted and desecrated the name of his mother. His long-dead mother, made into a play-piece for insults, had sent Twister off the deep end, and he had attacked with everything in his being, intending to stop only when the boy was dead.

All the outside world had seen was a drunken fool – the Village Idiot – beating on a helpless disabled boy. And god, had they come down hard.

He hadn't exactly volunteered to stand in the goal today. Every one of his peers had threatened far worse for him, if he didn't face his crime, and he had accepted, under immense pressure. But he refused to fall; refused to show them he was weak.

Another puck flew out at him, and – as per the terms ordered on him – he stood and took it. This one, however, had been fired by Otto, and so far, out of all the pucks Twister had been hit with, these were the hardest to take. Not only did Otto hit hardest; he was also Twister's best friend. At least... he had been. Twister wasn't sure what their status would be, after all this was said and done.

The shot struck him in the groin, and against his will, he was on his knees, gasping, his hands going between his legs. Cheers and barking laughter met this embarrassing hit, and it took every ounce of his control not to collapse. He wouldn't go down. He _couldn't_.

They didn't know, he reasoned. None of them had heard those hissing insults. How could they have? The kid had been subtle and manipulative. He'd made sure the attack would look unprovoked, and made sure Twister would pay for it.

Another puck, fired by Eddie, hit him in the ear. The ringing began immediately afterward, and an abrupt surge of nausea followed that, almost overcoming him. He growled, fighting his way back to his feet unsteadily, and waving away the way the world seemed to tilt at peculiar angles.

Then the kid in the wheelchair entered the court, and Twister almost fell flat.

He couldn't hit a puck to save his life, but he didn't need to. Every time he'd come to face Twister, he rolled right up to him, and swung with a borrowed hockey stick. Four times now, he'd done this, and sent his 'bully' staggering. Twister braced himself, regardless, readying to take yet another beating.

How funny it was, he mused, that this kid seemed physically well enough to come out and exact revenge. He bore the bruises, and the arm cast, of Twister's attack, which gave him a more helpless appearance. Twister knew now, even if his peers did not, that this was more show than anything else; the minute the kid had heard about the plan to bring Twister to 'court', his incapacitated state had miraculously solved itself. And now, here he was, moving about, grinning like a lunatic as he rolled closer and closer.

Twister looked him right in the eyes, defiant to the last.

"When you fall, I'm gonna make you eat shit, Rodriguez," the kid hissed, out of hearing of the others. "They'll hold you down while I do it, too. And you're gonna swallow it all."

Twister didn't grace this with a reply. He kept his expression neutral, and watched the swing of the stick with calm fatalism.

The blow hit him in the head. He went to his knees again, with both ears ringing now. The world around him threatened to fade, and he fought again; fought so hard, blinking away the spots in his vision. As the kid turned and wheeled away, Twister watched him go in a haze, before he leaned to his side, vomit spilling from his mouth before he could really register it.

They laughed. That was all he could hear, as the ringing faded: Laughter, and mocking. Hateful, acid words, that hit as hard as the pucks. He wasn't sure when his tears began – only that they were there. He didn't cry for himself, but for the invasive, abrupt thoughts of his mother. He wondered if any of this would have happened, had she not died in the crash. Would he have snapped at something else? Would he have suffered some worse punishment?

He heard something in front of him, and wasn't quite able to make out what it was, before he wondered if the wheelchair kid had finally ordered him to be held down, seeing as Twister could no longer stand. He looked up, still battling, and saw something that puzzled him: Sam was there, facing away from him, alongside Oliver. They were both out of breath, and he distantly recalled that both boys had declined participation in this harsh 'sport'. They had left, in fact, and he hadn't expected to see them again so soon.

But they stood in the way now, blocking further shots against Twister. An argument began – about what, he couldn't determine – and he saw Sam holding up one of _his_ smaller, hand-held camcorders, while gesturing and yelling with it. He had the sudden thought to tell him to be careful not to drop it – that thing had cost Twister a fortune.

He fell. He couldn't do it anymore, and didn't care that his meeting with the ground meant he would now be forced to eat shit, or whatever other torture the wheelchair bastard had in mind. From the ground, he saw Sam hand the camera over to Oliver, before turning around and crouching beside him. Twister flinched, waiting for another strike, and an involuntary bleat escaped him.

"It's okay," Sam told him, putting his fingers to Twister's wrist. "Stay awake, Twister. You hear me? I'm gonna get you outta here, dude. Just stay with me."

Twister wanted to explain to him that he really couldn't, but the words wouldn't come, and his eyelids fluttered shut. He heard Sam calling to him frantically, but he had no strength left. His whole body was burning, and before he passed out, he wondered if Hell was supposed to be this hot and dark.

…

Sam was inconsolably furious – the sort that comes as a tired fury, and brings a soul to stare at walls, and wonder if there's a way to melt things with their eyes.

He'd so doubted the conviction of the others, when they had first gathered to propose their plan for mob justice. He thought it had just been angry talk... right up until they had forced Twister to stand there, between the goal points, and take the shots. Then, Sam had refused to take part, loudly and vocally, hoping that by walking away, he might inspire the others to stand down, as well.

Only Oliver had followed. And the moment they were away, the pair of them had raced to the hall, where that fateful party had been thrown. Through a stroke of almost divine luck, they had discovered the security cameras, and the audio that went with them, and a new race began, to find footage of the party. Maybe, Sam had thought, just maybe, they would be able to shed some light on the matter. For, he knew Twister – _knew_ the boy was no common, drunken lout. Knew that his heart was made of gold, and that he wouldn't enter an attack without a reason.

And he'd been right.

The tape contained evidence of Kenny, in his wheelchair, prodding a sleeping dragon with a stick.

Yes, it had been luck. Luck had come to them, sure enough. But time? That had been their enemy, and as all enemies do, it worked to outwit them. By the time Sam and Oliver had copied the footage over to Twister's camcorder, and sprinted back up the hill, it was too late. Twister had already been beaten half to death.

Now, he lay unconscious on Sam's sofa. Sam had long since tuned out the belting worries of his mother, focused as he was on cleaning and bandaging his friend's injuries. And _god_, how badly injured he was; his body was one big mess of welts, and though Oliver had performed a thorough check for internal damage, Sam still feared for Twister.

So, Sam was angry. And it wasn't even Kenny he was angry with, or the crowd – it was Reggie and Otto Rocket who caused most of his upset, because they, like Sam, should have _known_. They should have known Twister was provoked.

"It was a classic case of mob psychology," Oliver said quietly, trying to calm him, while they both watched over Twister. "I am certain now they regret it deeply."

"I don't care if they regret it," Sam spat bitterly. "They, of all people, should have known better. He's out _friend_. No matter what he did or didn't do... he's still our friend. I mean, how many goddamn times have we stuck together through all kinds of crazy bullshit? How many times, against every single doubt?!"

"If one were to collect that data, my educated guess is that you four hold the record for this particular region for that."

"That's just it. A record, Oliver. That's who we are – who we've always been! And they let one kid come between that. Come between _us_. And I can't believe it. I _can't_."

Sam's voice had risen, and Twister stirred a little, giving an insensible, weak moan, before he lay still again. Sam sighed, checking over his vitals once more.

"It's been over three hours now, Twist," he muttered. "You gotta wake up now, buddy..."

"As I said, there's no sign of concussion. It's possible this is simply a healing sleep," Oliver said. "His body requires rest."

"Rest, yes. Unconsciousness, though? I don't like this."

Oliver grimaced, trying to think of something in that great mind of his that would ease Sam's worries. Before he could however, the doorbell rang, and both young men stilled, as Paula raced to answer the call. They listened intently as the door opened, and Oliver glanced nervously at Sam, as the familiar voices of Ray and Noelani Rocket drifted in. Sam's lips thinned to a line, and he abruptly threw himself further into the work of caring for Twister.

A cluster of footsteps approached him from behind, and he stalwartly ignored this, single-minded in his determination, as he carefully cleaned some of the remaining dried blood from Twister's swollen nose. When a horrified gasp came, and the footsteps stopped, Sam began checking Twister's still-ragged breathing, shifting him a little to try to ease the boy's struggles.

"Sam?" Paula tried.

Sam folded a towel over another ice pack, and applied it to Twister's bare, battered chest. Twister sighed at the contact, and Sam watched him, an unfathomable level of care and affection surging through his being.

"Sam."

Sam stiffened. That hadn't been his mother's voice, this time. "Get out."

"Sammy, just hear us out-"

"You're not welcome here, _Oswald_. Leave. Now."

Sam stood and turned, letting Oliver take over for now. He glared as he came face to face with the whole Rocket family, and the sight of Reggie and Otto very nearly broke his resolve to stay hostile. Neither sibling made any effort to conceal their shame or tears, and he knew, just by looking at them, that the sight of Twister alone hadn't been the only thing to bring this forward in them. It wasn't fear of punishment, either, nor the shock and scolding of their parents. No, this... _this _went far deeper.

They knew what they had wrought. And they hated it.

Sam let the moment draw out, feeling numb. Then, he stepped aside, casting a hand out for effect, to gesture at Twister's broken body. "He's still unconscious," he said flatly. "Oliver thinks it's a healing sleep. I'm not convinced."

"Sam-" Reggie choked.

"_If_ he does wake up, he's going to be in agony. He'll be unable to eat, drink, walk, or even get up to take a piss without help. Probably for a month or more. So," Sam took a steadying breath, his voice still oddly quiet, "I hope you're satisfied – 'justice' served and whatnot. He's only been beaten within an inch of his life. Seems perfectly reasonable. Yeah. Good job, guys. Way to treat your FRIEND!"

Sam's rage exploded on the last word, and it was met with a terrible silence. He let that moment drag out, too, and noted with detachment that he was shaking.

"We fucked up," Otto said at last, his voice broken of any passion. "We're not proud, dude. We _fucked up_. And... and we came to try to stop fucking up further."

"Oh, did you?" Sam's eyebrows shot up, and he backtracked to the supplies, snatching up one of many bloodied cloths, and tossing it at Otto forcefully. "You want to make amends? Maybe you should have come here earlier, then! Maybe, you should have come here when he was choking on his own blood, or when he pissed himself, and stained his goddamn pants _crimson_ from internal bruising! He's lucky not to have permanent internal damage. It was _luck_, Otto. Sheer, dumb luck."

"We can't change that now," Reggie replied in a whisper, her face utterly white. "We can only try to do the best we can for him now-"

"That's still assuming he wakes up," Sam began, drawing breath, as he realized he wasn't done ranting.

"Sam!" Oliver interrupted, his voice high and strained, "He's conscious! He's conscious, Sam!"

Sam instantly forgot his tirade. He wheeled right around in place, racing for the sofa, and kneeled by Twister's side, peering down hopefully. He saw that Oliver was right: Not only was Twister awake, but his eyes were focused and clear, the only confusion stemming from his apparent teleportation from the hockey court to the couch.

"Twister?" Sam called to him urgently. "Can you hear me?"

"Y-yeah... hi, Sammy," Twister said, his voice hoarse and weak. He swallowed, trying to get rid of the dryness in his throat. "Where am I?"

Exhaling with relief, Sam replied, "At my house. Oliver and I brought you here."

"Oh... wh-why... why're you yelling?"

"Don't worry about that, buddy, okay? Can you tell me how you're feeling?"

Twister swallowed again. "Hurts... I'm really thirsty. C-can we stop now, Sammy? Please... please tell them... tell them I-I'm sorry... b-but I don't think I can... I can take more hits."

"Hey, no, it's okay," Sam soothed, seeing the fear behind Twister's gaze. "It's over now. Nobody's gonna do anything like that to you, _ever _again. Not if I can help it."

At this, Twister smiled faintly, and tried to laugh – only to cry out, his injuries denying him that pleasure, as the unrecognized motion pulled at the welts. "Ow! God, ow..."

"Easy, Twist. Stay still-"

"It really hurts," Twister whimpered, tears spilling from his eyes. "Sammy. It hurts, it hurts really bad, please-"

"I know, buddy. I'm so sorry. But now that's you're awake, I can give you something strong for the pain. How's that sound?"

He waited for Twister to reply, but it soon became clear that he was still fighting his agony, and Sam nodded at Oliver. With quick hands, Oliver dug into the giant, disarrayed medical kit, and drew out alcohol swabs, a needle, and a vial; morphine. He stuck the needle into it as fast as he could, while Sam laid his hand on Twister's forehead, whispering comfort and reassurance to him, as he gradually grew more and more distressed.

It was a sobering sight, seeing Oliver and Sam battling to hold a combative and panicking Twister down long enough to get the injection into him. Noelani had to turn away, and was ushered to a quieter area of the house by Paula. Ray, however, remained with Otto and Reggie, his jaw clenched tight. He said nothing at all, but both siblings could feel the disappointment, anger and fear radiating from him.

They shared a glance then – a look that communicated a silent agreement between them. As one, they approached the sofa, their eyes locked on Twister.

"Keep still," Sam called to Twister, unsuccessfully trying to pin his friend's arm, while Oliver narrowly avoided having the needle slapped into his abdomen. "Twister, buddy, just relax! Everything's okay."

Twister thrashed in their hold, even as it pained him to do so. Sam wasn't sure why Twister was fighting... until he began crying out again.

"Please! I don't wanna eat it! Please, I'm sorry! I'm SORRY! Don't make me. Don't make me... please..."

"Twister, listen to me," Sam said firmly, "_Nobody_ is going to hurt you-"

"H-he said it, he told me, he's gonna make me eat shit, I don't want to, Sammy, please, I don't want to!"

Sam paled, fighting a surge of nausea, as he understood what Twister was suggesting. "He's not here," he said weakly. "He won't make you do that. None of us will. You're safe. We just wanna help you, dude."

It was no use; Twister's fear, exacerbated by his injuries, had him too far gone, and he'd begun hyperventilating, seeing only the group, and Kenny, converging to inflict a disgusting cruelty on him. Seeing Otto and Reggie draw near, Sam temporarily set aside his anger at them, nodding. They moved in to help, and it took all four of them at full strength to keep Twister pinned to the sofa, as Oliver finally injected him.

For a few minutes afterward, Twister still fought, and they remained with him, grim and determined, with Ray watching on in tears. Soon, though, the drug pumped further through Twister's veins, and his struggles weakened and died down. Sam, sitting behind him, with an arm firmly wrapped around his shoulders, felt his muscles relax, and saw watched his eyes flutter closed. He was still whimpering, but his breathing had begun to even out, and his tears were quiet now.

"Shh, shh. That's it... that's it, Twist. There you go," Sam murmured gently, easing Twister's head back onto the pillow. "There you go, buddy. Just rest. Let the medicine help you."


	45. Chapter 44

Josh smirked, casting a glance back to his friends, as they stood by and watched, whispering amongst themselves eagerly. Encouraged by this, Josh strolled up the hall, eyes fixed on his target. Twister hadn't noticed him yet, busy as he was trying to put things into his locker. Josh stopped just behind him, his lip curling at the boy's back, but he schooled away the tic, before reaching out to tap Twister on the shoulder.

Twister flinched away, and Josh heard his friends laughing distantly. Josh fought back his own laughter, and forced a smile, as Twister turned to face him.

"Hi, Twister," Josh said sweetly.

Warily, Twister eyed him, and he didn't smile back. "Hi."

"I have an important message for you. Do you want to hear it?"

Twister tilted his head curiously. "A message? For me?"

"That's right. It's from Marlene – she says she _likes_ you, and she wants you to go up and kiss her when you next see her." Josh tried his absolute best to sound serious.

"Marlene? She's Trent's girlfriend," Twister said doubtfully. "She loves him. Are you making up a story?"

"No, no, it's true!" Josh said urgently. "Why would I make it up?"

"I dunno," Twister mumbled, looking away. "Sammy says you do mean stuff sometimes."

"Oh, don't worry about that. Sam was probably just making a joke. Anyway, you should go kiss Marlene – in fact, I think she's coming out of biology class now. Look!"

Josh pointed, as planned, and Twister followed his finger, perplexed. Sure enough, Marlene was rushing out of class, and making a beeline for her locker. Josh reached out to Twister, setting a hand on his back – a motion designed to keep him off-balance, for he knew how much the boy hated being touched. With a light shove, he pushed Twister along the hall.

"Go on, hurry! If you don't, she might think you hate her. You don't want that, do you?"

"But I don't love Marlene," Twister insisted, even as he walked.

"That's okay. It's very polite to kiss a lady when she asks. Go, dude!"

Panicking, and very uncertain of himself, Twister raced up the hall, following Marlene. Josh allowed himself a brief snort of laughter, before he glanced at Twister's still-open locker. He took the opportunity to pull all the boy's stuff out before closing it, then hurried along after him, hoping for a good view of the show that was sure to come.

Twister caught up to Marlene at her locker – just as Trent showed up at the far end of the walkway, waving to his girl. Seeing Trent, Twister panicked more, and he decided that he didn't want Marlene to hate him forever. There was no time to try to say hello, so he rushed at her, instead, startling the life out of her, before he quickly and awkwardly tried to kiss her.

Alarmed, Marlene shoved him back angrily before he could, her eyes wide with shock, and Twister overbalanced and fell, striking the back of his head on the floor. People turned to stare, and Josh and his friends exploded into hysterical giggles.

"What the hell is wrong with you, Maurice?!" Marlene demanded.

"My name's Twister," Twister replied, frowning, as he sat up and felt the tenderness on the back of his head. "Owie... I'm sorry I scared you. I didn't mean to..."

"Trent?!" Marlene called, hoping her boyfriend was near. "Trent! The retard just tried to kiss me!"

Twister heard rapid footsteps, and a moment later, Trent burst from the growing crowd, his face a mask of fury. He immediately spotted Twister on the ground, and Twister stared back at him, confused.

"He said I got an invitation," he told the pair. "I'm sorry. I didn't want you to hate me, Marlene."

Wordlessly, Trent approached him, and Twister gave a squeak of fright, as the older boy lunged and grabbed him, hauling him to his feet, then slamming him into the lockers. "You tried to kiss my girl?" he demanded.

"I'm sorry!" Twister whimpered, as Trent pressed painfully on his collarbone with his knuckles. "Ow! Trent, please stop. It hurts."

"GOOD! What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Terrified, and completely confused now, Twister began to cry, squirming in Trent's grip. He glanced to Marlene, trying desperately to understand why she looked so startled and angry, but the moment he set eyes on her, Trent struck.

Twister fell to the ground, howling, and clutching at his face, as blood seeped through his fingers from his nose and mouth. Trent hit him again, aiming a savage kick into his middle, and Twister scrambled to get away, tracking fresh blood everywhere.

Trent loomed over him, snarling. "Don't you _ever_ touch my girl again! I don't care if you're a special needs little kook – you keep your bloody hands to yourself, you little bastard!"

Satisfied that Twister looked properly frightened, Trent turned his attention to Marlene, ushering her away. The students around them began to disperse, many of them murmuring and shaking their heads at Twister. Twister shivered, flinching away from every passing soul. And all the while, Josh and his crew laughed.

…

Reggie and Sam both startled as Trent slammed his tray onto the table, sitting down across from them with far more force than necessary. Marlene slid in next to him, looking mildly disturbed, and Reggie gawked at them both, before trading a puzzled look with Sam.

"You guys okay?" Reggie ventured.

"No," Trent snapped, glowering at her. "You need to teach your pet idiot how to actually act around people."

"Oh no... what did Otto do now?" Sam groaned.

"Not Otto! Twister!"

Sam stilled, and Reggie frowned. "Trent, what are you talking about?"

Marlene interrupted, before Trent could continue his ranting. "_Maurice_ tried to kiss me in the hall, like five minutes ago."

"What?!"

"He just jumped me out of the blue, and tried to kiss me. It was really scary. And then he tried to act like he didn't know what he just did!"

"Marlene... where's Twist now?"

"On the floor in the hall, crying like a baby. You really need to control him, Regina. I'd press sexual assault charges if he weren't a retarded little spaz."

"_Excuse_ me?" Reggie lost her astonishment to anger. "Don't you _dare_ call him that! And don't you call me 'Regina', either. Twister knows right from wrong, Marlene – and he doesn't like physical contact like that."

"Sure seemed like he wanted physical contact in the hall!" Marlene snapped back.

Sam sighed. "Look, everyone just chill a minute, okay? This sounds suspiciously like a big misunderstanding-"

"Misunderstanding or not," Trent growled, "You tell him if he ever does that again, he'll get worse than a bloody nose."

Reggie stared in a way that quickly made the other three uneasy. Slowly, she stood up from her seat. "Trent."

"What?" Trent muttered, not meeting her eye.

"Did you _hit_ him?"

"Yes. Yes, I did. He tried to kiss my girl, Reg. I let him off light."

For a few full seconds, Reggie blinked at him, in silence. Sam, sensing her rising rage, tugged worriedly at her arm, which she promptly ignored. She cast a withering scowl at the couple, but didn't say another word. Gathering her pack, she was off, weaving through the lunch crowd, on a mission to find Twister. Sam gulped, then followed along, with considerably less grace.

It wasn't hard to locate Twister once they entered the hall. If they hadn't heard his sobbing, and seen the wide berth that flow of walkers were giving him, then the malicious rumors and whispers on the lips of other students would have led them to him, regardless. They both sprinted now, anxious for him, and skidded to a halt beside him, kneeling.

"Twister!" Reggie cried, rattled by the sight of blood. "Twister, sweetie, are you okay?!"

Twister flinched at their arrival, at first, but when he saw the familiar faces of his friends, he gave them a pleading, desperate look. Reggie restrained the urge to reach out and hold him, far too aware that if he didn't approach her first, he might freak out at the contact.

"Reggie," Twister bleated, through blood that still flowed down his face. "Reggie, I'm sorry! I didn't want Marlene to be mad! I don't understand."

"Try to take some deep breaths, buddy," Sam urged him.

"He said she invited me!" Twister went on, his voice broken. "I don't understand, Sammy! He said it was okay!"

"Slow down, Twister," Reggie soothed. "Who said what was okay?"

"Josh said so. He said Marlene had a message, and that she wanted me to kiss her because she likes me. I don't like her, but Josh said she'd hate me if I didn't do it!"


	46. Chapter 45

"Gotcha!"

Twister heard the cry, a split second before violent pain erupted from the small of his back. His whole body went out of his control, the pain spiking to every muscle, and he collapsed, dropping the food he'd taken, and hitting the floor, hard.

While he lay there, trying to recover from the shock, he felt someone grabbing his arms and binding his wrists. Panic seized him, and he willed himself into motion, thrashing in the hold, and trying to see enough in the dark to make out his attacker.

Both flashback and electric shock hit him, simultaneously. The latter went into the right side of his neck, and the former stole all time from him, mingling with the pain, as he saw the shape of his rapist above him. He knew he must have said something, because the rapist replied with a string of angry curses. The voice was different, however, and the rational part of Twister's mind had to concede that this was not the same person. That did little to stop the memories from flooding in.

He lost more time. Between points of waking nightmares, he saw himself being dragged along the floor, slowly. Then, he found he was sitting up, and his wrists were fully bound to some sort of sturdy pipe. He tugged anxiously at the bonds, more panic rising, as he realized he was trapped.

Merv Stimpleton scowled down at the intruder in his garage. He was never in the mood for teenagers, or burglary, or the early hours of the morning. This boy before him was the embodiment of all three, and that made him furious. He didn't bother keeping his swearing and ranting at a low volume; as far as he was concerned, the Rocket and Dullard households nearby gave him plenty of grief, and this was only fair.

His wife didn't approve.

"Oh, Merv! What on Earth is going on now?!" Violet cried, entering in her nightgown. She hit the garage light, then squinted, before gasping. "Oh my!"

Twister shrunk under the light, pushing himself as far away from the old couple as his bound hands would allow. An involuntary, terrified whine sounded from the back of his throat.

"What have you done to that poor boy, Merv?" Violet demanded, planting her hands on her hips.

"Poor boy?" Merv repeated incredulously. "Poor boy?! This _poor boy_ was stealing food out of the pantry! MY food! He's a night prowler. A blackhand. A thief. A hooligan!"

Violet scrutinized Twister with a sad frown, noticing at once that he looked thin and ill. "He doesn't look much like a hooligan to me. More like somebody needs to love and feed him... maybe get him some new clothes, too."

"Dearest. Love of mine. I will _not_ have a hood rat skulking about my house and taking _my_ things. Call the police."

"Everything okay over here?" a new voice called.

Both Stimpletons turned to the garage window, and glimpsed Ray and Noelani Rocket, looking freshly awoken. Beside them were their teenage kids, Reggie and Otto. The whole family was pajama-clad, and confused, and were staring through the pane at the peculiar scene within.

Merv growled, causing Twister to flinch badly, whimpering. The sound drove Merv's patience off the edge, and he lunged at the boy, reaching to grip him by the hair, while Twister struggled and began to cry.

"ONE more sound out of you, thief, and I'll teach you a thing or two about how people used to punish your ilk, in olden days!"

"Merv! You let him go, this instant! Look at him. He's terrified, the poor thing."

"He SHOULD BE! Stealing from MY HOUSE!"

"Oh, Merv, it was just some food – something he looks like he needs. Now, you stop holding him like that, and get those nasty little cords off his arms. I'm gonna whip him up some sandwiches."

"_Woman_-"

Violet turned a steely glare on her husband, and Merv's jaw shut with an audible click, as he promptly released Twister. Slowly and reluctantly, and giving his wife a cautious eye, he untied the kid's hands. The moment he was released, Twister scrambled back from him, retreating to the nearest corner and curling up tightly.

"Yuri, please!" he cried, "Please don't! I won't tell anybody... just let me go. Please."

"It's alright, dear," Violet said gently, trying to approach.

"No, please! PLEASE, Yuri, don't, I don't wanna! I don't wanna!"

Violet's hand flew up to her mouth, as she realized the teen didn't appear to be all there right now. He watched her with wide, frightened, tearful eyes, looking far younger and more innocent than he actually was. An idea came to Violet then, and she backtracked into the house, moving as quickly as her old legs would allow. Merv was left scowling, alternating his gaze between the boy, and the still-gawking family of Rockets. Nobody dared move.

Violet wasn't gone long, but she certainly didn't come back empty-handed. Under one arm, she carried a heavy, puffy old blanket, while she balanced a large plush tiger in the other arm. Everyone stared at this oddly childish selection, but silence – save the continuous, begging whimpers from Twister – continued to reign over them.

Coming as close as she could without startling him, Violet dropped into a crouch, setting the toy down and unfolding the blanket. She offered Twister a gentle smile then, holding it open with one arm, while she picked up the toy again, and pushed it his way.

"It's alright," she soothed, "Nobody's gonna hurt you, dear. Would you like the kitty?"

She held the plush up, shaking it a little, and bringing it a little closer. Twister stared at her in confusion, breathing hard and fast, his forehead drenched in cold sweat. Violet waited patiently, keeping as still as she could, ignoring her protesting joints. After what felt like an eternity, however, Twister finally, hesitantly reached out. He flinched back several times, like a startled animal does when it's sniffing an unknown area.

Violet kept her smile, as he gradually drew closer. "There you go, sweetie," she whispered. "That's it. It's okay."

Mere seconds after she said this, Twister lunged with startling speed, grabbing both blanket and toy in one daring move. He withdrew immediately, holding them close, his eyes darting between Merv, Violet, and the window, as if he expected them to attack him for this. When none of them seemed likely to come flying at him any time soon, he pulled the blanket around himself, almost hiding under it. He clung tightly to the plush, hugging it to his chest and shivering.

Violet nodded, and backed away carefully, falling back to the window. With her eyes still on Twister, she slid it open a crack. "Good evening, you four."

"Are you guys okay?" Ray queried. "Who is he?"

"We're fine, thank you, Raymundo. As for our unexpected guest... apparently the poor thing was looking for food, and Merv here got a little overenthusiastic when he found out. All's well now."

"Would you like us to call the police?"

"That would be good, yes, if you don't mind. Also, Reggie, Otto – I was hoping you two could come in for a little while, and try to talk with him. He's your age! Maybe some peers would help draw him out a little bit."

"Our age?" Otto muttered, glaring at Twister. "He's acting like a little kid."

"Well, he's very frightened, dear," Violet lowered her voice to a whisper, "I don't think he's quite himself at the moment. Merv used to look that way for awhile, you know – after the war. I don't want to make assumptions, but I believe our new young friend has a little bit of trauma that he's carrying around. Poor little guy."

"I'll call the police," Noelani said hurriedly, disturbed by this development.

As she disappeared, back to the Rocket household, Ray eyed Twister, making a silent calculation. He, too, could see the way the boy wasn't quite in the present, and although he felt apprehensive about it, he found Violet's suggestion sound. Taking his kids by the shoulders, he turned them around to face him.

"I want you two to try to get through to him," he said firmly. "You don't have to do anything crazy – just try to talk to him. Let him know you're not gonna fly off the handle at him."

"Dad!" Otto protested. "He's some crazy homeless kid. I don't wanna talk to that. He probably stinks."

Reggie elbowed him sharply. "We'll do what we can," she told her father.

Violet beamed at them, then flapped a hand at her husband. "Merv, dear, will you open the garage?"

Merv looked haggard. "More teenagers in my house," he muttered, stalking over to the controls. "I suppose we'll want to feed them, as well. And read them a bedtime story. And let them get away with theft-"

"Merv. If you're not going to say anything nice, don't say anything at all."

In fuming silence, Merv keyed the garage open. The sound of the screeching metal scared Twister, and he held desperately onto the plush, as if it would protect him from harm. Outside, Ray ushered his kids forward, before he, too, went back to the house, presumably to speak privately with Noelani.

Otto dragged his feet. "This is a bad idea. What if he turns out to be some psycho? I wanna actually live to graduate."

"Relax," Reggie warned. "I don't like it, either, but... maybe we really can help him. He looks like he hasn't been treated very well in a long time."

"So now we have to play therapist for him?"

"No. Just be _nice_, Otto."

They rounded the corner, recoiling a little as they came face to face with Merv. He glowered at them as they passed, and they gave him a wide berth as they entered the garage. They stopped a good distance from Twister, who watched them like a hawk. Violet rushed over to them, smiling her sad smile.

"Now, don't get too close," she said quietly. "I'll be right in the kitchen, whipping up a little something for him. All you have to do is talk to him, and remember: Keep a friendly smile. We're all good people here, but I don't think he knows that yet."

"We'll handle it, Mrs. Stimpleton," Reggie said confidently.

Violet nodded, satisfied, then cast a warning glance at Merv, before she disappeared back into the house. An awkward silence fell, as the siblings regarded this strange boy, uncertain how to best proceed. Eventually, Reggie took initiative, and stood forward, coming up to Twister. She stopped where Violet had stopped earlier... then promptly sat down, right there on the floor. Otto followed hesitantly, keeping back a little further, before he, too, sat down.

"Hi," Reggie offered to Twister. "I'm Reggie. This is my younger brother, Otto. What's your name?"

Twister didn't reply. He seemed confused by their disarming positions.

"We live next door," Reggie carried on. "Do you live in Ocean Shores, too?"

It seemed hopeless; he was too wary, and his eyes shined with some far-away memory that made both siblings uneasy. After a moment, however... he slowly nodded.

"I-I... I'm Twister," he said, his voice small and hoarse.

"_Twister?_" Otto repeated with a snort. "That's a weird name."

Reggie elbowed him again. "Sounds like a nickname."

Twister nodded again. "Mr. Malbeck named me. He said I needed a better name than Maurice."

"_Maurice?!_" Otto cried.

"Otto, shut up. Who's Mr. Malbeck?"

"He was my friend. He tried to protect me from Yuri, but Yuri killed him."

Both Rockets turned pale, and traded looks again.

…

When Shirley heard the description of the intruder from Noelani, she couldn't help but sigh with exhaustion and sorrow. If her gut was right, she knew who this boy was, and dreaded the moment she'd have to take him down to the station. Twister, she knew, was utterly terrified of being trapped, and no place screamed 'trapped' like a holding cell in a jailhouse.

"Alright, girl, let's get this over with," Shirley said to herself, stepping out of the patrol car.

She could already see him, through the wide-open garage at the Stimpleton home. Her heart ached at the sight: He was curled up under a blanket, holding a plush tiger tightly to himself, as if to let go of it would mean certain death. To Shirley's surprise, he had let Violet come close enough to sit next to him, a feat that he had great difficulty doing with any stranger.

"Evening, Mrs. Stimpleton," Shirley greeted neutrally. "Mr. Stimpleton," she nodded at the old man.

"Hello, Shirley, dear. I'm so sorry to bother you at this hour, but as you can see, we have a young visitor with us."

Twister watched Shirley's approach with wide, fearful eyes. He gave that cry – the one that so pained her to hear – before he abruptly grabbed Violet's hand. Violet gripped back reassuringly, and Shirley let a little hope surge, though she still stopped a decent distance away, before she crouched down and smiled sadly.

"Hello, Twister," she said kindly. "You remember me?"

Twister didn't reply. Violet rubbed her thumb over his hand, whispering to him. Shirley waited patiently, knowing that pushing the boy now might only cause grief. Sooner than she expected, however, he acknowledge her.

"Am I in trouble?"

"Well, honey, I wish it were otherwise, but I'm told you broke in to steal some food. Is that true?"

Twister looked ashamed. "Yeah," he admitted quietly. "I'm really sorry. I was hungry."

"I know that, Twister, and I'm sorry, too, but we've talked about this. Did you try to go to the shelter for help?"

Now, Twister grew upset. "He was there. I didn't wanna go in when he was there."

Shirley paled. "You saw him? Did you check with someone else?"

"They said he was there, yeah. I'm not stupid."

"No, baby, you sure as hell aren't. But I wish you'd called me. I could have helped, you know."

"I know. I'm sorry."

Violet bore their conversation patiently, before she raised a finger in interruption. "Officer Shirley, dear? I think it's important to note that I don't intend to press charges."

"Violet!" Merv growled.

"Quiet, Merv. This young man doesn't need jail – he needs care and understanding."

Shirley might have hugged the old woman, had she been out of uniform.


	47. Chapter 46

"Reg, I..." Twister swallowed, frowning at the dryness in his throat. "Can I, um... I-I..."

Reggie had been casually stuffing books back into her locker, swapping them with her winter gear, but as Twister spoke to her – in a manner that was clearly far from any usual chit-chat between classes – she turned to him, troubled. He stood nearby, hands stuffed into his pockets, while he looked anywhere _but_ directly at her. As she watched him, she realized she could read sorrow and fear in his eyes.

"What's up, Twist?" she asked, matching his frown. "Are you okay?"

"Um... I-I just wanted to, ah... well..." he swallowed again as he trailed off, his jaw working to form words, and failing. How in the world was he supposed to tell her this?

"Is this about the Mad Town incident?" Reggie asked quietly.

She'd expected him to blush, the way he had when Conroy had caught him smoking his first (and last) joint, right there at the skate park. Twister was on month four of a six-month banishment as punishment, although his peers were a little less lenient, thanks to Conroy's implementation of new, strict rules. It was the cement incident all over again... except, instead of just becoming the target of thrown trash, he was now the target of more than a few nasty attacks, both verbal and physical.

Instead of blushing with shame, he paled with it now, and looked almost stricken – sick to his core. His shoulders hunched, like he expected a strike, before he quickly tried to correct this response. But Reggie had noticed.

"Hey," she said gently, "Are Julian and Josh giving you a hard time again? Do I need to kick their asses?"

Twister didn't reply, and now his look became sullen and tired. So tired, hollow and haunted did he appear, that it scared Reggie, and she had to fight to control her breathing. _Something_, clearly, was bothering the living hell out of her friend; hounding him. He closed his eyes, exhaling in a deep sigh, which gave Reggie the inexplicable urge to make him lie down and rest.

"Twister?" she pried.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled back. "I-I just... I need to talk about something. A-and I dunno how to do it."

"Okay. Well, whatever it is, Twist, it's clearly bothering you a lot. Maybe we should go somewhere a little quieter."

He nodded, then quickly began walking, startling Reggie. She shut her locker hurriedly, then rushed after him, darting between meandering students to catch up. Neither of them said a word as they left the building, and Reggie soon realized Twister intended to lead her across to the little side garden – a calm place, where sound didn't carry well, and secrets could easily be shared beneath the trees. Since winter had set in, there was somewhat less in the way of foliage, but it was still an ideal spot.

Twister found a bench far away from other students. It was the most secluded point in the gardens, and Reggie's worries increased. What could he have to tell her, that required such levels of protection? They both sat down on the bench; Reggie, casually taking any old spot, and Twister, putting a little distance between them, as if he feared some sort of reaction from her.

"Alright," she sighed, "Come on, Twist. Tell me, already. I haven't seen you this nervous in years."

He still didn't look at her, and began picking at his long sleeves, sitting forward, with his elbows resting heavily on his knees. Reggie leaned forward, too, trying to catch his eye, but he stubbornly refused the contact.

"I'm not good with words like you are," he said, after a moment.

"That's okay. Just... let things out, however you feel like you can."

He smiled then, but it was no grin; it was a death-like grimace, almost manic, and without joy or mirth. The empty chuckle that followed was alarming, too.

"However I can," he repeated in a whisper, the grimace fading. "Reg, I... I can't say it right. So I'm... I'm just gonna show you. Okay? And promise me... promise me you won't freak out," his voice fractured a little. Reggie was shocked when he shut his eyes, and caused tears to fall from between them. "Please don't be scared."

On impulse, Reggie reached out for him, resting a hand on his shoulder and squeezing gently. She could feel him trembling, and ever did he pick at his sleeves. "I promise I'll do my best not to freak out," she told him firmly. "I can't say I'm not already a little scared, but I'm here for you."

She waited patiently, and didn't pressure him, knowing that his current hesitation was fragile; he was _terrified_. His breathing grew a little sharper, and he stiffened, coming to an unspoken decision to finally just get it over with.

He began pulling up his sleeves.

Reggie saw them, long before he'd finished exposing his wrists. She gasped, both her hands flying to cover her mouth, for she couldn't quite believe that what she saw there was real. Her gut felt as if it was in a nosedive to the bottom of the world, plummeting at a million miles an hour, and crashing into a pool of dread and terrible anguish.

"Oh, Twister," she whispered.

The skin of each wrist was almost impossible to see, for the sheer number of deep, wide _scars_ that marked them. Many of them were recent, and all formed a pattern of neat, even lines – lines that Reggie knew weren't just caused by any sports accident, or even bullying. No, Twister had done these himself... and, going by some of the older, somewhat faded marks, he'd been doing it for awhile.

His head hung in shame and misery, as he bore these wounds for her to see. He was _cringing_ away from her, expecting reprimands or shouting or god knew what else from her. Reggie had a million thoughts in her mind to do all of that, but refused to act on them; she had promised.

So, instead, when he'd pulled his sleeves down once more, to hide the cuts from prying eyes, Reggie acted on instinct again, closing the gap between them, and pulling him into an abrupt and fierce embrace. It startled him, and he went rigid under her hold... but only for a moment. He returned the hug with quiet desperation, and Reggie shut her eyes tightly, as Twister shook, his tears turning to barely-contained sobbing.

"I'm sorry," he bleated into her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Reg-"

"Shh. It's okay," Reggie whispered, rubbing his back. "It's okay, Twist."

"It's not! I should never have... I-I didn't... I'm sorry. I didn't know what else to do, I can't stop, I've tried to, but I can't!"

"God, sweetie... how long has this been going on?"

He sniffled, trying to draw breath through his tears. "Since Mad Town."

Four months. For four months, Twister had been hurting himself like this... and they hadn't even noticed. Thinking back, Reggie recalled that he'd started wearing long-sleeved tops more often, and declined to join his friends in surfing unless he had his wetsuit. He'd brushed off comments with complaints that it was cold, but when she thought back on it, Reggie realized what an obvious lie it was. Prying had been little use, however; not even Tito could bring Twister's secret to the surface, and in the end, they had all dropped it.

What a regret that was at present.

They remained in silence for an eternity, locked in their embrace, for Reggie could feel how badly Twister needed this contact. He'd been struggling and suffering alone for far too long, and she refused to deny him love. Only when his sobbing died down, and Reggie's shoulder was drenched with his tears, did he start to show signs of discomfort. She understood, and broke the hug, letting him turn from her and hide his face. More shame.

"Twister," Reggie began carefully, after another period of silence, "I want you to know that, no matter what, I'll always be here for you. You're one of my best friends, and I hate seeing you hurt like this, and it's scary as all hell... but you don't have to feel ashamed in front of me. And I'm glad you felt you could trust me enough to tell me about this."

He didn't respond, and he'd begun picking at his sleeves again; rubbing against the wounds underneath. Reggie paled, and reached out once more, to take his hands in hers; to prevent him from harming himself further.

"Is it okay if I ask you some questions?" she tried. "You don't have to answer if you don't want to, but I'd really like to know how I can help you."

Twister hesitated. "O-okay," he replied, his voice hoarse.

"Alright. First thing I need to know is, have you told anyone else about this? Anyone like your parents, or the school counselor?"

"No... I don't want my parents to find out. They won't understand. My dad... one time I heard him say people who do this... this kind of thing... he says they're faking it. But it's not fake. A-at least... it doesn't feel fake," he paused, suddenly apprehensive. "Reg, do you-"

"I strongly disagree with your dad. What you're going through is very real. Which is why I think you should talk to a counselor."

"They'll tell my parents."

"Not if you ask them to keep it quiet, they won't. Unless you're... you're a danger to yourself, or other people... which brings me to my next question," Reggie said slowly.

Twister's grip went tight. "You wanna know if I wanna kill myself," he said quietly.

God, it hurt to hear that. Reggie had to muster every ounce of her courage not to break, there and then, bracing herself for the worst. "Do you?"

"Sometimes."

Reggie swallowed a lump in her throat. "What do you mean by that?"

"I think about it a lot."

"How much is 'a lot'?"

"Every day. But... I don't really have a plan. I just see stuff sometimes, a-and... and I think about it. Stuff like... like the ocean. The Pier. I think about drowning myself, o-or hanging myself off the edge, and some days I really, really want it to happen."

"Well, what stops you from doing it?"

At long last, Twister looked at her. It was only for a brief moment, and he glanced away again immediately afterward, but Reggie had seen the response in his eyes; the guilt. He didn't want to hurt his friends and family.


	48. Chapter 47

"Twist," Otto began, "Not to sound racist, or anything, but-"

"Uh-oh," Sam muttered.

"-you look whiter than Sam did when he first moved here," Otto finished.

"Hey!"

Otto ignored him, eyeing Twister cautiously. "You feeling okay, dude?"

Twister gave him a weak smile. "Just kinda tired, man. That's all."

"Have you been studying late again?" Reggie asked.

"Yeah... but it's okay. I'm learning a lot!"

"Uh-huh," Otto rolled his eyes. "What, did you finally learn to count?"

Twister blushed, looking away somewhat dejectedly. Reggie and Sam both scowled at Otto, who winced, regretting the quip.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I was only messing around, bro. How's the weird math system going?"

Twister brightened a little. "It's pretty good. It's like learning a whole new language, but if the language was like... pictures."

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Like Mandarin?"

"I don't think so? I don't remember getting any fruit... do you think the teachers secretly give fruit to everyone else?"

"Those are oranges, Twister. Mandarin as a language is the most commonly used form of Chinese."

"Ohhhh... I guess it's kinda like that. Chinese looks like pictures, right? Do you think I should learn Chinese?"

"Maybe just focus on your math for right now," Reggie said, amused.

Twister smiled sheepishly, and the gang carried on chatting, while Tito brought them lunch. As Reggie went on prying the guys for suggestions for the next issue of her Zine, however, Twister grew awfully quiet, and that sickly, palled look returned to him. More anomalous, however, was the fact that he didn't seem to be scarfing down his food like he normally did. He didn't touch a thing in the fries basket, and eventually pushed it away from himself.

This halted all conversation mid-stream, and his friendly openly stared at him.

"Dude," Otto remarked, "You're totally not okay. You getting sick?"

"I'm fine. I told you, I'm tired, that's all."

"Then you should try to eat," Sam encouraged, pushing the fries back his way. "You'll feel more energetic afterward."

But Twister shook his head. "Not really feeling it today, Sammy. Thanks for looking out for me, though. I think I'm gonna go take a walk for a minute. I feel kinda weird sitting here." He scooted back in his chair, sighing heavily.

"Twist, maybe you shouldn't stand up-" Reggie began uneasily, with alarm.

Too late. Twister got up quickly, the way he did on any ordinary day, with little consideration that this was no ordinary day for him. What little color he'd had in his face drained away, and he went still far too abruptly, his eyes gaining a confused, distant look. Reggie's own eyes widened.

"Otto! Catch him, right now!" she yelled, half rising out of her seat.

"Huh?"

For the second time, Reggie was just a little too late, and Otto too slow in realizing what was happening. Sam was a little sharper, and was closer to Twister than either of them, but his reflexes failed. He lunged at Twister, and missed, as Twister staggered back once – then dropped like a stone, his knees giving out from under him. He went down sideways, fast, and slammed into the table next door, almost toppling it completely as he hit the ground.

His friends cried out to him together, already rocketing out of their chairs, to crowd around their fallen friend. Twister lay sprawled on the floor, twitching and moaning, with a fresh, new welt on his temple to show for his unanticipated descent.

"Holy shit! What happened?!" Otto blurted, staring down at him.

Reggie shoved by him, coming to a crouch beside Twister. "I think he fainted!" she reported nervously. "God, okay... uh... Tito?! _TITO!_"

Tito, who had been shifting things in the back room, came running at the sound of strained fear in Reggie's voice. "Everything okay, Rocket Girl?"

"Twister's unconscious!" Reggie replied urgently.

Tito took in this information with the scene, his eyes widening, but he kept his calm, rushing over to the group, and kneeling down next to Reggie. He saw the way Twister seemed to be jerking, and quickly braced a hand behind the boy's head, to protect him from striking it on the tiles. With his free hand, he took Twister's pulse, and noted the slightly-bleeding welt.

"What happened?" Tito demanded sternly.

"He stood up too fast," Sam explained. "He hit the table when he fell."

"Is he gonna be okay, Tito?" Otto demanded, hovering around them.

No one was sure. Reggie and Tito called to Twister, trying to revive him, but for several minutes, the only response was that insensible moaning and twitching. After a few minutes of this, however, his shaking died down, and he suddenly drew in a sharp breath, startling a little, before his eyes slowly opened. He blinked groggily, his vision out of focus and hazy.

"Twister? Are you alright?" Reggie asked him anxiously. "Can you talk?"

"Give him a sec, cuz," Tito said gently. "He's confused."

Gradually, Twister returned to the waking world, and finally focused on his friends, frowning. "Wh-what are you guys doing here?" he asked, perplexed.

"You passed out for awhile there," Tito informed him. "How you feeling?"

"I... I dunno, Tito, man. Where am I?"

"At the Shore Shack... hey, no. No. Stay lying down for a minute, okay?" Tito and Reggie both held Twister in place, as the boy tried to sit up. "Gotta let yourself recover, bruddah."

"My head hurts," Twister mumbled.

"Yeah, I bet," said Sam. "You fell pretty hard there."

"I did? I don't remember that..."

"Is that normal?" Otto asked. "He concussed or something?"

Tito, who had been keeping a watchful eye over Twister's reactions and vitals, shook his head, but grimaced. "Doesn't look too serious. The real question, though, is how come a fit, healthy little cuz like him lost consciousness in the first place?"

Twister couldn't answer, still struggling with his disorientation. Reggie, however, wasn't about to let it slide.

"He looked _super_ peaky before he got up," she told Tito. "He said he felt tired, and he wasn't touching his food. Then he stood up, and just... went right back down again."

"I fainted?" Twister asked, embarrassed. "Oh, man..."

"Yeah. It's okay, though, Twist. It's not like it was your fault."

"Maybe, maybe not," Tito countered. "Sounds to me like you've been pushing yourself too hard, Twister. Especially since yesterday, you told your old Uncle Tito you hadn't slept in awhile."

Twister cringed. "I-I just have a lot of stuff to do."

Reggie frowned at him, her eyes wide again. "Twister!"

"I'm sorry..."

She sighed irritably. "You remember what I told you about taking care of yourself during the semester?"

"Not... not really, Reg. Sorry. I'm okay, though."

"Dude, if you say that one more time when you're obviously _not_ okay, Reg isn't the only one who's gonna kick your ass," Otto snapped.

"Save some for Tito and I," Sam added, folding his arms.

Twister looked away from them, ashamed of the angry scrutiny. "I don't wanna fail!" he blurted. "I'm already a loser at stuff like math and science, and those are both required for videography!"

He knew he sounded like a petulant child, but he didn't care. He still felt awful and tired, and hadn't lost that sickly, pale color in his cheeks. Above him, Tito and Reggie shared a worried look.

"You're not a loser," Reggie said firmly. "Before this, you were just telling us about the new math system you were working with, and it sounds like you're doing great with that! But you're not going to do well if you keep pushing yourself to burnout. You _passed out_, Twist – that's your body telling you that you're going too far. Do you know how scary it was, to see you go down like that?"

"I'm really sorry, okay?! Can I get up now?" Twister whined.

Deciding that would have to do in terms of lecture, Reggie and Tito eased him into a sitting position, but stopped him from standing when he paled again, his ire vanishing in the face of the weakness in his body. Sam eyed him, then shot around the counter to retrieve a glass of water, before passing it off to Twister.

"Drink slowly," he advised, "And breathe."

"Did I stop breathing?"

"No, thank goodness. But you need to take things one step at a time right now, and – like Tito said – let your body recover. You look awful, dude."

Twister didn't reply, and began sipping the water. The hand holding the glass trembled a little, and after he ended up spilling half the damn thing down his shirt, Reggie reached out to help him hold it. As he took one more sip, however, he abruptly stopped, pushing Reggie's hand back suddenly, swallowing hard.

"You okay?" Reggie asked cautiously.

"No... I think... I think I'm gonna hurl," Twister responded bleakly.

Sam rushed off again, seeking a trash can, but arrive too late, as Twister abruptly pulled away from his friends, turned on his side, and brought the water he'd drunk right back up again. Tito moved to brace him, holding him up as he started to slump down. Sam returned with the bin, and got it there in time now; the second wave of nausea hit, and Twister was violently sick.

"Oh, shit," Otto cursed, cringing. "Tito, man, please tell me he's gonna be alright."

"This can happen after dizzy spells," Tito replied, though he seemed uncertain. "Reggie, little cuz, why don't you bring your car around, eh? Time to take him home. Get him lying down and resting."

"You got it," Reggie jumped to her feet and dashed off, without hesitation.

Sam took her place, and helped Tito support Twister, who lay limp and miserable in their arms, coughing and trying to blink away tears. Just as it seemed like he was recovering, he threw up a third time, before falling into empty retching and convulsing. Tito sighed and rubbed the boy's back, trying to comfort him, while Otto was sent for more water and cool towels.

By the time Reggie pulled up in the car, Twister was spent, leaning against Tito in a slump, while the old fry cook again examined his head injury. Determining that Twister's bout of illness was just another symptom of exhaustion and fainting, he bade Sam and Otto to help him escort Twister to Reggie's car.

"Stay with him for awhile," he instructed, buckling Twister into the front seat. "Make sure he _stays_ lying down for today, and gets plenty to drink. If he's up to it, make him light soup or bread. Light stuff."

"Thanks, Tito. We'll look after him," Reggie confirmed. "All the better to whomp him for this when he's feeling okay again."

Tito chuckled, but it didn't reach his eyes, and ended with a sigh. "Good luck, little cuzes. And don't hesitate to call for help, should you need it."

…

Twister last remembered falling asleep in Reggie's car, and feeling someone check his pulse again, while faint whispers carried an unknown conversation around him. When he next awoke, however, he found himself lying down on the sofa in the Rocket living room, and Reggie was above him, tucking a blanket over him. He blinked, then looked around sluggishly, troubled to find someone had dressed him into a pair of pajama bottoms, and set a pillow under his head. Both were wonderful sensations, but they puzzled him.

"Hey," Reggie said softly, "It's okay. Close your eyes and go back to sleep, alright? You need to rest, Twister."

He wanted to object; he had so much work to do! But his muscles wouldn't really respond, and his whole body felt heavy and comfortable under the soft blanket. He quickly succumbed to it, drifting into sleep again, almost as soon as he shut his eyes. Reggie waited, watching him closely, until his breathing went even once more. She managed a light smile at the sight of his slightly slack jaw and relaxed face, and she stood to let him rest.

For the rest of the afternoon and evening, Twister slept on like the dead, while his friends quietly hung out, playing video games on a muted TV, and speaking only in very soft whispers. They could easily have done a million other things elsewhere, but none of them wanted to leave Twister's side, even if they wouldn't quite admit as much to one another.

So they stayed, keeping a close eye on him, and waking him a couple of times to keep him hydrated. He was barely aware of these moments, and Otto had almost lost his mind suppressing his laughter, when Twister once faded back to sleep mid-drink. Later on, as the outside world darkened into night, he began calling out and thrashing pathetically from some nightmare. Both Otto and Sam pretended not to notice as Reggie rushed to his side. She soothed him back to peace, whispering to him and stroking back his hair, as if he were a child.

She'd just got him to go quiet again, and pulled his tangled blanket back into position, when the front door burst open. They all looked around in alarm, as Ray and Noelani strolled in, back from their late evening date. Arm in arm, they beamed at the kids, unable to see Twister on the sofa.

"Hey, guys!" Ray greeted cheerfully. "How were classes today?"

"_SHH!_ Dad!" Reggie hissed. "Twist's asleep."

Both adults blinked, perplexed by Reggie's stern glare and protective response. They saw that Sam and Otto wore grimaces, as well, and rapidly lost their bubbly mood. Curious, they moved inside, peering over the sofa, and spotted Twister, who had stirred a little at the noise. He'd curled up on his side, facing the back of the seat, his chin buried under the blanket, leaving only his nose poking out. He gave a deep sigh as he settled again, but didn't wake.

Noelani hummed. "Somebody's very tired," she remarked in a soft whisper.

"That's kind of an understatement," Reggie replied. "Can we go to the kitchen? I don't want to wake him."

Ray and Noelani agreed, and while Sam volunteered to stay with Twister, Reggie and Otto followed their now-worried parents into the kitchen. The second they were clear of the living room, Otto took initiative, restless from the day's events.

"Twist fainted at the Shack today," he said bluntly, much to Reggie's annoyance.

"WHAT?!" Ray cried.

"Dad, please!" Reggie begged. "Keep it down!"

"He _fainted?!_" Ray asked, in a near-hysterical stage whisper. "Jesus... is he alright?"

"He hit his head when he fell, but he's okay," Reggie said.

Otto scowled. "No, he isn't. He's an idiot. Tito thinks he's totally wiped from overworking and stressing himself too much."

"Did you take him to a hospital?" Noelani demanded.

"No. He just needs to rest," Reggie replied. "I'm sorry we didn't give you guys a heads-up before letting him stay, but... well, as we found out today, he really sucks at taking care of himself. And we didn't want to leave him on his own."

"Well... I'm happy to hear you guys are being such good friends to him, but I'd much prefer if we got a doctor to look at him, _especially_ if he struck his head. How long has he been asleep for?"

"Since one. He woke up a couple of times, to drink water and stuff."

Otto chuckled, recalling the water incident, then let his grin broaden, as another recollection followed. "His _babysitter_ here sang him back to sleep when he had a nightmare."

Reggie glared at him. "I did not _sing_ to him!"

"No, but you were petting his hair. He's nineteen, Reg. He's not a baby."

"He was having a rough time, Otto. He may not be a baby, but he _is_ completely exhausted. What would you have done, left him there to suffer?"

Ray breathed a long-suffering sigh. "Guys, enough."

Both siblings traded one more challenging glower... before they both switched tack instantly, uniting to a single cause, as they looked back at their parents. "Is it alright if Twist stays overni-"

"Yes," Ray said immediately. "Believe it or not, I'm not comfortable leaving him alone, either. And I'll phone a doctor in the morning."

"Thanks, pop," Otto said, relieved.


	49. Chapter 48

Sam, Reggie and Otto paced on their blades, absently punting a hockey puck back and forth between themselves. They had been here for a good ten minutes already, waiting patiently for their friend to appear.

"What is taking him so long?!" Otto snapped, slamming his stick down.

"We could always knock and ask," Sam suggested.

"He _knows_ we were supposed to practice today!"

"Maybe he's still sick," Reggie countered.

"He can't be sick! He was fine surfing with us yesterday!"

Reggie frowned. "Yeah, if by 'fine', you mean he was hacking up his lungs half the time. We could always practice on our own."

"Or we could knock and ask," Sam said again.

"It won't be the same if we play man down," Otto grumbled. "We _need_ three to make the play, and Sammy's in goal."

"So put him in Twister's position! You can do it, right Sammy?" Reggie asked kindly.

Sam sighed. "I could... probably... with great effort... but why don't we knock and ask for Twist first?"

Neither sibling replied, circling one another with annoyed hostility. Sam looked to the skies with a long-suffering sigh and, deciding he was done trying to place himself between them, began making a beeline for the Rodriguez household. There was no car in the driveway; presently, Twister's parents were on some cruise, down off the coast of Ecuador. Lars had been left in charge – a decision that made everyone who knew the family question whether there should be some kind of natural disaster alert issued – and Twister had been living under his care for the past week.

The idea of encountering Lars at the door was a deterrent, but it didn't outright stop Sam from approaching. And, as he drew close to the door, he heard Reggie and Otto call out, then race after him; at least he'd have their support. Drawing up his nerve, he walked unsteadily on his blades, made it to the front porch, and rang the bell.

There was no initial response, and Reggie and Otto caught up, standing side by side with Sam, the trio of teens staring expectantly at the door. After a moment, Sam rang again – and almost fell backwards in surprise, as the door opened wide.

Lars stood before them, scowling as he stared across at them. "What do you want, dweebs?"

"Where's Twister?" Otto demanded. "You didn't lock him in the cupboard again, did you?"

"What kind of person do you think I am, Rocket dork?"

"You're _Lars_."

Lars stepped forward abruptly, snarling. "I'm also Twister's older brother. And I'm telling you to get lost. He's sick."

"Sick? With what?" Reggie asked.

At her question, Lars' hostility faltered a moment; he looked almost _afraid_, and tired. Like he hadn't had much sleep. "It's some stupid cold. The doctor told him to rest, which means he's not going out to play with you kiddies."

"Aww, what's the matter?" Otto mocked, "You scared your mom and dad are gonna bust you for being a shitty caretaker?"

The snarl returned, and Reggie quickly came between Otto and Lars, holding out an appeasing palm. "Cool it, Otto. Lars, Twist was coughing pretty bad yesterday, too. Is he alright? Can we see him?"

Lars fell silent, squinting at the trio, while he struggled with a decision. They stared back in defiance, and for a long time, nobody said a word. Then, with sudden resignation, Lars sighed, and turned away.

"Take off your skates. And come in _quietly!_ You already woke him up ringing the stupid doorbell."

The three of them rushed the door, all at once, then had to pause to untangle themselves, and remove their gear, before they finally entered the Rodriguez home. Lars had vanished, to the surprise of none, but as they made their way inward, they saw he hadn't gone far; he was in the living room... and Twister was with him.

They had expected blankets and tissues, and maybe hot soup, but the sight that greeted them instead was unexpected, and sobering. Twister was propped up under many blankets, shivering, with his eyes closed tightly. There were at least seven cushions behind him, keeping him in a sort of nest, and the coffee table next to him was littered with medicines. On the floor were two bins: One almost full to the brim with discarded tissues, and the other... recently emptied of something even worse.

He didn't react to their entry, until Lars leaned over him, and prodded him gently on the shoulder.

"Hey. Your dork friends are here to say hi."

He waited until Twister opened bleary, bloodshot eyes, then moved away, disappearing again, this time in the direction of the kitchen. Twister stared after him in feverish confusion, then slowly began to shut his eyes again, until the others moved within his line of sight. He blinked, then gave them a dozy smile.

"Hi, guys," he rasped, his voice barely audible.

"Hey, Twist," Reggie greeted gently, wincing at how terrible he sounded. "How you feeling?"

"Bad... the doc says I probably shouldn't have surfed yesterday. He said it was new... nuh... I dunno, some lung infection I can't really pronounce."

"Pneumonia?!" the trio repeated in horror.

"Yeah. That one," Twister paused, puzzled. "What's wrong?"

"Dude. Sammy, shouldn't he, like... be in a hospital or something?" Otto said.

Sam grimaced. "Depends on the severity. He's awake and talking, so I'm inclined to believe it's walking pneumonia, instead of the full-blown infection. Still... he's pretty sick. And no, before you ask, he's not gonna be in any shape for the competition."

Otto groaned. "That blows! Twist, why'd you let yourself get this sick?!"

"Lay off, Otto," Reggie warned. "It's not like he _asked_ to get a lung infection."

"Sorry, guys," Twister offered weakly. "Maybe you could find someone else, like Squid did when we all had the Fiji... Fiji Flu..."

He trailed off, his voice straining further, and gained a look that was both exasperated and fearful. He shut his eyes, and visibly tried to draw a breath – only for that breath to rattle off into a horrible, fluid wheeze. On exhaling, he began to hack out coughs that made yesterday sound like a dainty throat-clearing exercise. He shot forward, leaning over desperately, as the coughing continued, and his hand came out of the blankets, seeking one of the tissue boxes nearby.

Sam saw what he wanted, and quickly passed it to him, then paused, listening somberly as Twister kept on coughing with increasing desperation.

"Jesus, Twist," Otto said quietly, staring with wide eyes. "You sound like that old lady out at the gas station."

Twister, of course, couldn't reply... and, as time went on, they slowly realized he had yet to even draw in another breath. A cold sort of dread coursed through them, and they clustered in around him, staring no longer, as they tried to ease their friend's suffering. Reggie drew the blankets away from his chest a bit, while Otto helped prop him up, as he'd gradually been coming closer to falling off the sofa.

Sam had better ideas. He began really scrutinizing the medicines on the table, identifying several of them as stuff his mom kept in bulk: Inhalers, cough syrups – in day _and_ night varieties – vapor rub... nothing truly potent that might help Twister breathe until after the fit had passed. He looked helplessly back at the others, shaking his head, and forced himself to wait.

After a few more moments of this fluid hacking, Twister convulsed and brought something up into the tissue, prompting a cry of disgust from all of them. He threw down the tissue into the bin, but he'd immediately grabbed another, because his body wasn't done giving him hell. He looked awfully pale now, and they weren't sure what scared them more: The fact that the used tissue came away coated in brown and bright red stains, or the fact that Twister's lips were starting to turn blue.

"He can't breathe," Sam warned, panicking. "He can't breathe!"

"Get out of the way! MOVE!"

The trio startled apart at the unexpected bellow, and stared in shock, as Lars came racing in, hefting a small, cylindrical steel tank with him. He also carried a clear oxygen mask, and was hooking up plastic tubes between the tank and the mask as he ran.

He threw himself down on the sofa, just to the side of Twister, and grabbed him harshly, pulling him back into an upright sitting position. Wasting no time, he smacked Twister's tissue-bound hand down, and mashed the oxygen mask up to his mouth and nose, turning a dial on the tank as he did. Twister's eyelids fluttered, as he weakly slumped against Lars, still coughing and wheezing, while Lars firmly held that mask in place.

"Breathe, Twister," Lars instructed. "You got the O2 now. Just breathe."


	50. Chapter 49

"I dunno about this, man. It seems kinda wrong."

Otto had to work very hard to hide his mirth from Twister. The rest of the wrestling team were a little less successful, and Twister eyed them doubtfully. He didn't even like wrestling; he only wanted to join because Otto had, and wherever Otto went, he liked to follow.

It's the only way to join, Twist," Otto said solemnly. "We all did it to get on the team. You _have_ to."

Twister blushed. "Isn't that kinda gay, dude?"

"Nah. Seriously, don't worry about it. It's only gay if you like it. Just do the best you can!"

At this, several member of the team broke into hysterical laughter, and Twister shied from them. Otto responded by directing him over to the locker room bench. Twister stopped there, glancing back nervously, and made no move to do anything.

Otto snorted. "If you do it clothed, you'll get disqualified."

"But-"

"Come _on_, Rodriguez! We don't have all day. You wanna join or not?!" came the impatient demands from the team, who were all clustering around.

Twister frowned. "I wanna join! I just don't wanna do this."

"Don't be a pussy," Otto snapped, as he rejoined the throng. "I thought we were bros!"

That, of all things, prompted Twister to continue, out of worry; he didn't want to stop being friends with Otto. With trembling hands, he took off his shirt, to the cheers of the team, He hesitated again on the button of his pants, but the prospect of losing a friend drove him on once more.

"Holy shit, he's actually gonna do it!" someone near Otto whispered. "What a moron!"

"You still filming?"

"Hell yeah!"

Unaware of any of this, Twister finished undressing, his face now dark red, as he suffered the laughter and wolf-whistling of his soon-to-be teammates. He swallowed a terrible lump in his throat as he climbed onto the bench, on all fours, and stopped there. Otto had been snickering with the others, but when he saw Twister there, buck-naked and utterly ashamed, the hilarity of the situation faded somewhat.

He began to doubt... but dared not speak up. The last thing he wanted was to draw the ire of his teammates.

"Say it, Rodriguez!" one voice – the team captain – called out.

Twister fought to still his trembling. "I-I... I..."

"_Say_ it."

Twister couldn't say it; couldn't say the words he'd been instructed to speak: An invitation for someone to step forward and touch him.

"Man, he's not gonna say it."

"Chickenshit!"

"Fucking SAY IT!"

Twister shut his eyes. "I-I w... want y-you t-t-to... to touch m-me."

The whole group screamed with hysterics, and false applause... before one of the athletes stepped forward. The captain. Otto watched, confused at this breach of the agreed plan. The idea had been to get Twister to say the words, and then stop. So what the hell was this?

"Now you have to touch yourself," Captain Waters instructed.

"Wh-what?"

Coming close, Waters reached out, and looked back at the team, making a lewd face as he slapped his hands on Twister's backside. Otto's heart leaped to his throat.

"Touch yourself," Water said again. "Start masturbating."

"N-no..."

In response, Waters lunged, pulling Twister right off the bench by his hair. The boy yelped as Waters caught him in a headlock, and forced him to turn and face the group. Otto's eyes went wide, and he drew the line.

"Dude, stop this," he said quietly, stepping forward, and silencing some of the cheers. "It was only supposed to be a joke."

Twister looked confused, but Waters merely smirked. "Don't worry about it, Rocket Boy. It's just a little extra initiation."

"Look, man, I don't wanna fight over this. Just let him go. He's on the team."

"You don't make that call, Otto. _I_ do. And I say, Rodriguez has to do one last trick for us before he gets to join."

"Otto, what's going on?" Twister cried, his voice strained from the choke hold.

Otto looked around at the team, and paled. Every single one of them had lost all semblance of mirth, and were staring at him with open hostility. He'd known all these guys for ten months, and never seen such looks on their faces, nor known they were even capable of such hatred. He didn't recognize these strangers... and that scared the living shit out of him.

So he stood down.

"Otto?" Twister asked again, weakly. Innocently. It physically hurt to hear him so damn naive, but Otto couldn't look at him anymore.

"It'll be okay, Twist," he managed, gulping.

"Captain Waters, I don't wanna do this anymore!" Twister said, far from reassured. "Please. I don't wanna join the team anymore."

Waters tightened his hold, silencing the boy a moment, before easing up to let Twister draw air. "That's a shame, Rodriguez."

"C-can I go? Please..."

"No. Since you won't touch yourself, I think we're gonna have to extract a punishment, since you wasted our time today. Fellas?"

Two wrestlers stepped forward, volunteering. Twister's eyes widened, and he began struggling, to no avail, as the pair took him by the arms, and helped Waters lower him to the ground, on his front. They kept him in place, flat, while Waters kneeled down, and spread Twister's legs apart.

Twister cried out again, fighting to break the hold, but more members of the team came forward, and someone planted a hand over the boy's mouth when his cries became too loud. Otto backed away, feeling sick to his stomach, as Waters spat onto his captive's backside, and began undoing his own pants.

The scream of agony and terror that followed the violation was something that would haunt Otto for the rest of his life. He hid his face with his hands at the anguish of his friend, as Captain Waters began to rape Twister, right there in the locker room. Because a hand was not enough to silence the boy, the team began cheering and howling again, themselves.

Otto backed further way, retching, then found his feet carrying him further. Eventually, he turned, to begin sprinting from the room, hounded all the way by that awful crying.


	51. Chapter 50

"Otto, Reggie, Sam... there's someone I'd like you to meet!"

The trio looked up from their skateboard repairs abruptly, startled by the loud and cheery appearance of Violet Stimpleton. She stood at the entry to the Rocket garage, beaming, and she wasn't alone.

Standing beside her, looking awkward and nervous, was a boy their age – around seventeen or eighteen years old, at least. He seemed to be actively restraining himself from running; that, and Violet currently had a rather tight grip on his shoulder. He didn't meet their eyes, though he was indirectly scrutinizing them.

"Kids, this is Maurice!" Violet continued. "He just moved into that lovely house across the street. Why don't you put on your welcome hats for him? I'm sure he could use the company!"

There was a long, awkward silence, where the trio returned the observation of the interloper, albeit more openly. Violet, oblivious to the chill in the air, continued to smile.

"I'm going back around to speak with his family again – such nice people, they've invited me to sit down for a good-old-fashioned coffee and chat," she said brightly. "I'll leave you to get acquainted, Maurice. And, you three, mind you be careful with him," she leaned forward, dropping her voice to a whisper, as if the boy was not standing right there, "Young Maurice here suffers from a personality disorder, so I expect you to be nice to him!" she regained her normal posture. "Have fun!"

Maurice's face turned a deep shade of maroon as Violet waltzed away, humming to herself. The trio were now staring nervously at him, as if he were somehow contaminated. For an age after Violet's departure, they all remained still, until Maurice shuffled his feet.

"So, uh... that was probably the worst introduction ever," he said timidly.

"No kidding," Otto muttered.

"Um... can we start over, or should I just... go?"

"You should g-"

"Stay," Reggie interrupted, silencing her brother with a glare. "You'll have to forgive Mrs. Stimpleton," she told Maurice. "She was the same way when Sammy first moved here. I'm Reggie, by the way, and this is my younger brother, Otto."

"Right... um, I know Mrs. Stimpleton said my name's Maurice, but... I'm kinda... used to people calling me Twister, so..."

Otto snorted. "_Twister?_ What's that, a part of your personality disorder? What's wrong with you, anyway?"

Maurice – Twister – looked away uneasily. "I-I... I got diagnosed with Borderline Personality Disorder," he admitted with a resigned sigh. "Like the celebs, I guess. I'll try not to bite you."

Sam snorted this time, but it was a good-humored laugh. "And we'll try not to hold it against you. I can't believe Mrs. Stimpleton outed you like that... actually, I can, but that's not the point."

"It's my mom's fault. She kind of... tells everything."

"Where did you guys move from?" Reggie asked.

"San Diego. But I was born in Tijuana."

"You're not American?"

"Dual citizen. My mom's from Arizona."

"Hey, cool!" Sam said excitedly. "That means you have two passports, right?"

Twister managed a smile. "Yeah. I'll show you sometime, if you want."

Otto folded his arms impatiently. "You do any sports or stuff like that in San Diego?"

"Surfing, blading and longboarding, mostly. The last one I only picked up 'cause of work, though. It was a stupidly long distance to school, and I hate buses. Too crowded."

"Crowded? What, your crazy make you afraid of people?"

"Otto, lay off," Reggie warned.

Twister rubbed his arm. "He's not wrong."

Sam frowned. "I didn't think EUPD generally included social anxiety."

"It doesn't, but PTSD sure as shit does," Twister mumbled.

Sam paled. "Damn. I'm sorry."

"Don't worry about it, dude. It's just the luck of the draw."

"Some luck."

"What's PTSD?" Otto butted in.

"Don't worry about it," Twister repeated, before Sam could answer; it was clear he didn't particularly want to discuss it, and had, in fact, made an error in bringing it up at all.

"You know, people always say that when there's something to worry about," Otto growled, standing. "No offense, dude, but I'm not an airport, and I don't wanna spend my time hanging around that much baggage. Maybe you should find someone else to hang with – I heard they have vacancies at the psych ward."

"Otto! Can you _please_ reign in your stupid for, like, five minutes?!" Reggie yelled.

"No, it's cool," Twister said flatly, scowling at Otto, before turning away. "Nice to meet you guys, but I got unpacking to do. Later much."

He stalked away before any of them could say another word. Reggie and Sam stared after him regretfully. Otto, on the other hand, simply huffed.

"Dodged a bullet," he said, loudly enough for Twister to hear. "Shoobie."

In reply, Reggie picked up a spare bolt and lobbed it at him with full force. "Nice going, dork!"

"OW! What's was that for?!"

"He didn't do anything to you, but you still acted like a complete asshole towards him!"

"He's a disaster, Reg. His types usually are. It's like Eddie and his manic bullshit."

Another bolt came flying at him, and he barely managed to dodge it. "You don't get to treat people like crud for stuff that isn't their fault!" Reggie snapped. "Eddie may be manic, and more than a little weird, but he's a nice person, overall. I'm sure Twister is, too – but we'll never know, will we? Because _someone_ forgot their brain today!"

"Help me out, Sam," Otto pleaded, hiding behind his board.

Sam shook his head. "You're on your own, Otto. I'm not big on dissing people with trauma. It's not cool."

"..._trauma?_ The hell are you talking about?"

"PTSD stands for post-traumatic stress disorder," Sam replied curtly, "Which, in simple terms, means he witnessed or experienced something that left him pretty shaken. It's common in soldiers and police officers who've seen action, but civilians get it, too."

"Hold up," Otto said slowly, "You telling me he's like a veteran or something? Like Jumping Jack?"

Reggie and Sam winced. 'Jumping Jack' was a homeless local, and a war veteran, so nicknamed because his illness often gave him uncontrollable tremors all over his body. That, and he frequently zoned out or screamed at people, when his memories got the better of him.

"I don't think Twister is _quite_ as bad as Jumping Jack, seeing as he sounds like a pretty well-adjusted guy," Sam sighed. "But the illnesses are the same."

"Jesus Christ. I did _not_ sign on for this," Otto muttered.

Sam was fed up. "You know what? I didn't sign up to listen to this, either. I'm gonna go work on some homework."

He rose abruptly, grabbing his gear with irritable force, before taking a page from Twister's book, and departing the garage. Otto blinked, then started after him, before he was intercepted by Reggie.

"Don't even think about it," she growled. "You wait until dad hears about this, Otto."

Otto groaned. "Reggie! You gonna tattle on me now, is that it?"

"Over this? I don't care if it is tattling. Sammy's right: It's not cool to be such a dick about people with mental illnesses. And I _know_ dad has warned you about Jumping Jack."

"Come on, sis-"

"Can it."

…

Sam heard the squeal of tires, above all other sound. His gut and brain both gave a unified, wild alarm, and he stopped, looking back along the street.

Time slowed for him. In the curious stillness of his awareness, he saw the car, bearing down on him with frightening speed. He knew several things, the moment he laid eyes on it; things that came instantly to him, in the split nanosecond between himself and impact:

He wouldn't have time to get out of the way. He hadn't said goodbye this morning. He was going to die.

And Twister was jumping on him.

Both boys flew to the ground, propelled with startling force by Twister's sprinting leap and momentum. They fell out of the car's path, impacting the sidewalk, and time resumed its normal pace for Sam, as the vehicle went roaring by, less than a blink later.

They were unharmed.

Lying in shock on the pavement, Sam distantly heard Otto and Reggie yelling at the top of their lungs, the calls racing closer with every one of his mad heartbeats. There was something else, too; breathing, nearby. Hyperventilating. Panicked.

Twister.

Groaning from his unexpected meeting with the ground, Sam rolled over, puzzled. He saw the taller teen, lying next to him, on his side, and the moment he lay eyes on Twister, he knew something was terribly wrong. The boy was facing away, but he trembled, from head to toe.

"Sammy! Twister! Are you guys okay?!"

Reggie appeared in Sam's field of view, followed shortly by Otto. They both crouched close to him, helping him sit up, but Sam was no longer paying attention, and didn't answer. Pushing away his near-death encounter, he got up and moved over to Twister, frightened that he had been clipped by the car, after all.

As he leaned over Twister, Sam saw that, while the boy was physically unharmed, his mind was far from unscathed. His eyes were wide open, and dilated, while he stared in a fixed trajectory, seeing nothing of the present. His forehead was drenched in cold sweat, and he'd gone awfully pale, wearing a terrible, horrified expression.

With sudden surety, Sam knew what was happening.

"Twister," he called clearly, trying to banish the fear in his voice, "Twister, hey! It's Sam. Can you hear me? I need you to focus on me, alright?"

"Is he okay?" Reggie asked, alarmed.

"No. I think... I think he's having a flashback," Sam reported.

"Should I call 911?"

"No, just... back up, both of you," Sam instructed, as he returned his attention to Twister. "Twister? _Maurice_. Look at me, okay? Look at me," he moved around to Twister's other side, facing him. "You're okay. You're safe, buddy. Everything's okay."

"Sammy, what the hell is happening to him?" Otto asked, his voice strained. "What do you mean by 'flashback'?"

"He's reliving a memory," Reggie said, when Sam gave no response. "A bad one."

"Twister, _breathe_," Sam went on. "Breathe with me – nice and slowly. In through your nose, steady, and out through your mouth."

The instructions were a dire necessity; Twister was gasping, almost to the point of choking, as tears fell freely from those too-wide eyes. Whether he actually heard Sam was anyone's guess, because he was no longer there with them. Something inside had taken him elsewhere, and all he saw now were ghosts. Sam fought hard to hold his mind in place, desperate to keep him grounded somehow. He began talking about all the things under the sun, in that same, soothing, calm voice.

For a moment, some glimmer of recognition came to Twister, and Sam's hopes began to build... until another car, so close to them on the side of the road, came rushing by.

Twister screamed. In a split second, he was up, shooting out of his stillness, and scrambling back from the source of the noise. The trio recoiled in fright, unprepared for such an outburst, and they almost expected him to attack them, so frenetic and animalistic were his movements. He didn't attack, however; his path took him to the nearest building wall, where he pressed himself to it, sliding down as he began sobbing and howling.

"Twister, it's _okay!_" Sam said firmly. "It's okay, buddy. It's a memory. Just a memory! Whatever you're seeing isn't happening right now. Breathe, Twister."

"I told you he was nuts," Otto hissed to Reggie.

"There's a time and a place, Otto, and this is neither," Reggie shot back quietly, staring at Twister's madness. "He's seeing something terrible right now, and he doesn't need you making it worse."

Otto wanted to argue, but another unbalanced, terrified cry from Twister silenced him. As he watched Sam trying to calm the boy, Otto realized, grudgingly, that Reggie was right. The desire to dig at Twister for his problems faded quickly in the face of stark reality.

Sam, having approached Twister again, was trying to get the teen to focus on him. He came forward with his hands raised, keeping his steps deliberate and steady. Eventually, he got close, and – against warnings inside his head, that told him to beware – he carefully set his hands on Twister's shoulders, crouching down as he did so.

"Twister," he said softly, "It's me. It's Sam. I know you're scared right now, but you _have_ to try to focus. Focus on the sound of my voice: You are in Ocean Shores. It's just past four in the afternoon, on a Saturday. The month is March, and you're here, with Otto, Reggie, and me. You're _safe_. Do you hear me?"

"S-Sam?!" Twister blurted, making them flinch. "Sam! SAM!"

"I'm here. I'm right here. It's okay."

"Th-the car! Sam, the car! It's the car! You have to leave, get out of the way, it's the CAR!"

"I'm okay, Twist," Sam reassured him, trying to smile. "You saved me. You saved my life. I'm safe, too – just like you. I made it. Alright?"

"They're dead," Twister whispered, his gaze suddenly locking onto Sam, seeing him for the first time. "They're dead. They're all dead. The car... oh, god. God, they're dead..."

Sam, piecing together the clues, grimaced as he began to come to a better understanding of what Twister might have experienced before. He had to take a few deep breaths himself, and tried not to think of how close he'd come to being a victim of something awful... something Twister had seen before.

"They're gone, Sam," Twister went on bleakly. "They're dead."

"I know, buddy. I'm so sorry. But that's in the past, you understand? It's not happening right now."

"But they're dead, man! They're dead. They're _dead!_"

"Shh, _easy_, Twister. Easy. I know they're dead. But it's going to be okay. There was no accident here today, thanks to you. No one was even hurt today, and that's where you are now. Everybody is okay today."

Reggie gasped at these words, reaching the same conclusion Sam had. But Sam felt hope return now, as he watched some of that distance leave Twister's eyes. The boy began looking around, his fear gradually being replaced with confusion. He was still breathing like he'd sprinted ten miles, and he was clearly exhausted, but he was beginning to calm, that much Sam could see.

"There you go," Sam said, rubbing his arms reassuringly. "Deep breaths, now. In, and out," he demonstrated, and this time, Twister began trying to follow. "Good, Twist. Again."

The Rocket siblings watched on in silence, while Sam drew Twister out of the last remnants of the attack.

…

Tito noticed at once the curious silence that hung over the four teens. Silence, and a moody anxiety, both lying heavily between them. He'd noticed some of it when they had first entered, but now, further observation told him something serious had happened. The worst of it appeared to be centered around their new friend; the boy looked deathly pale, and tended to stare at nothing, while the trio kept casting him worried glances.

"You cuzes look like you could use a pick-me-up," Tito offered, leaning on the counter. "How about some coconut shakes?"

"You know, that sounds perfect, Tito," Sam said with a heavy sigh.

"Same here," Reggie and Otto chorused, with dampened enthusiasm.

Tito turned his eye to Twister. The boy looked up vacantly, dazed, but gave no verbal reply.

"He'll have one, too," Sam said quickly.

Nodding, Tito began preparing the shakes, but made it obvious as day to them that he was open and willing to listen. Reggie and Sam exchanged looks, as if trying to work out who would speak.

Otto beat them to it. "So, Sammy almost got hit by a... um, he almost... dammit, how do I say this without setting Rambo there off?" he poked a thumb in Twister's direction.

"Otto," Reggie warned. "Don't-"

"You can say 'car'," Twister interrupted, his voice toneless and quiet. "Sam almost got hit by a car."

Tito's eyes bulged, and he nearly dropped a coconut on his foot, as he stared at Sam. "When was this?"

"About an hour ago," Sam said. "I'm okay, Tito... all thanks to Twister. He got me out of the way in time."

"Oh?" Tito's eye went back to Twister. "Nice one, bruddah."

Twister didn't reply, and Tito was secretly unnerved by the strange look in the boy's eyes. What had Otto just said? 'Rambo'. A veteran's look. Tito had only known the kid a little over a month now, and knew from the grapevine that Twister struggled with mental health issues. He hadn't been aware of what, exactly, Twister was sick with, but he knew he was looking at some of that illness now.

Setting the shake ingredients aside, he leaned on the counter again, this time in front of Twister. "You okay, cuz?" he asked gently.

"Yeah," Twister said automatically.

"Hmm. Sounds like the kind of answer you get from a vending machine," Tito replied, glancing to the others. "What say the Three Stooges?"

Reggie offered a weak smile. "He'll be okay, I think."

"He needs a little while to recover," Sam added. "He, um... he kind of had a flashback, after the close call."

"There was an accident," Twister said suddenly, drawing their undivided attention. "Back in San Diego. Brake failure on a pickup, and... and eleven preschool kids."

"Holy Christ," Otto breathed.

"I was on my longboard... I think. I don't remember. There's parts missing. I know I saw them... watched them all die. And I know police asked me things. Don't really know what I told them... that they were dead, I guess. I told them I was okay, and the next thing I remember is standing in a grocery store, on the other side of the city. My phone was ringing, and when I picked up, my mom was on the line, crying.

"She screamed at me, asking where the hell I'd been – why I didn't answer the phone. And I looked at the phone, and saw she'd called 57 times. My battery was almost dead, even though I'd charged it when I left home. And the clock looked all wrong. It wasn't the right time. I couldn't figure it out... until I saw the date. I'd lost two days. Two whole days, just... gone."

Twister frowned then. "I couldn't tell mom what happened," he continued, in that detached narration, like he was someone else, recalling a story that wasn't his. "I tried to make the words come, but I couldn't. So I told her where I thought I was, and she said she'd pick me up. So I went to the parking lot and waited.

"After that, there's another jump. I... 'woke up', I guess, in my living room, and my parents were there, with Lars, all sorta clustered around me and staring at me. Mom was holding my hands, and she kept calling my name, like she'd been doing it awhile. But I couldn't remember how I got there, or when."

"You blacked out," Sam said, in awe.

"Yeah," Twister replied. "That's what the doctor said. I still can't remember all of it. She said it was from trauma – my brain couldn't handle the stress, or something."


	52. Chapter 51

"Dude, what happened to your arms?"

Twister froze in place, realizing perhaps a touch too late that it had been a bad idea to roll up the sleeves of his hoodie to do the washing. He hurriedly withdrew his hands from the water, tugging down the sleeves as he went.

"It's nothing," he murmured.

Otto wasn't convinced. "Those look pretty deep, Twist. You'd better get Raymundo to take a look."

"I said it's nothing!" Twister snapped. "I'm fine."

Now, Otto narrowed his eyes, certain of his suspicions. "Doesn't look like 'nothing' to me. Do you really wanna get an infection way the hell out here?" he cast his arms about the forest.

"They won't get infected. It's fine."

"Whatever," Otto said, unconvinced, but unwilling to argue, given Twister's irritability.

They finished off the dishes in heavy silence, where Otto found himself pondering when, and where, Twister might haven gotten that badly hurt. It was odd, and left him feeling uneasy; clearly, _something_ had happened that his best friend was completely unwilling to share.

Twister, too, was pondering, but his thoughts were overlaid with panic, as his heart thudded wildly in his chest. He hoped, beyond anything, that Otto didn't realize what the wounds were from. If he did, there would be hell to pay, and Twister didn't know if he was ready for that kind of confrontation.

The teens trudged back up to the camp together, leaving the lake behind them. Almost as soon as they were in range of the site, Twister separated himself from Otto, seeking a seat next to the campfire, and settling himself down across from Sam and Reggie. He brought up his hood, and drew his knees up to his chest, hugging them close, and signaling to all that he wasn't in the mood for talk.

Otto diverted to replace the dishes in one of the tent hanging racks, but didn't immediately rejoin the others. Instead, he wandered over to Tito and Ray, who were trying to repair one of their tent poles. He made it look like he was coming to help, but kept glancing back at Twister every few moments, noticing now that, cast in the glow of the fire, the boy looked awfully pale. Otto gulped, hating that he was betraying Twister like this; there wasn't much choice, however.

"Hey, dad?" Otto began, as he picked up a tape roll and began picking at it absently.

Ray looked up from his work. "What's up, Rocket Boy? You and Twister get those dishes done?"

"Yeah, it's all done, but... well... something's up."

Ray and Tito shared a long-suffering look. "Don't tell me you guys lost _another_ pot," Tito sighed.

"No, nothing like that," Otto lowered his voice a little. "It's just... Twist is hurt. I don't know how, he's just hurt."

"Hurt?" Ray frowned, looking back at Twister. "He seems okay."

"It's his arms," Otto insisted. "He's got a bunch of really deep cuts on them, but I don't know what from. He got all defensive and stuff; said it was fine. Will you, like... check on him? Make sure he's alright? I'm sorta... worried."

"Cuts?" Ray repeated, slowly lowering the tent pole. "What kind of cuts? What do they look like?"

"Um... super deep. And they're all in really neat, straight lines. Like they're from a machine or something."

Now Tito stopped, and both men grew quietly alarmed, staring first at Otto, then over at Twister, before trading glances once more, as if to confirm from one another that they shared fears. Otto watched them in confusion.

"What?" he asked warily.

"I'm gonna go talk to him," Ray said decisively.

"You sure that's a good idea, bruddah?" said Tito.

"If it's like Otto says, he'll need the first aid kit, regardless of what it is."

"That's what I said, but he didn't wanna hear it," said Otto.

Ray didn't reply, already making his way across the camp, over to the bonfire. Reggie and Sam were engaged in conversation, and didn't look up, until Ray stopped near Twister. They both fell silent, sensing Ray's tension, and Twister followed suit.

"Twister, buddy, can I talk to you alone for a minute?" Ray said carefully.

Twister's suspicions showed on his face, and he leaned a little, glowering in Otto's direction. "What about?"

"Let's take a walk," Ray suggested firmly, in a tone that brokered no argument.

"I don't feel like it, Raymundo. No offense."

"Twister. Right now, please."

"Everything okay, dad?" Reggie tried.

"You guys stay here, okay? Come on, Twister."

Given no choice in the matter, Twister stood up, angrily kicking dirt at the fire pit as he went. Ray kept very close beside him, leaving Sam and Reggie to gawk after them. Tito and Otto joined them at the pit a moment later, as Ray directed Twister to sit down with him on a tree stump, a fair distance from the camp.

"Tito, what's gong on?" Sam asked.

Tito watched the distant pair, his expression grim. "Not sure yet, little cuz. We'll see what Twister has to say."

Otto paled. "I didn't mean to get him into trouble!"

"You didn't," Tito reassured.

"Then why is dad acting like we just burned the Shack to the ground?!"

"He's _worried_ about Twister, is all. He's not angry."

"Worried?" Otto swallowed. "His wounds aren't that bad... are they?"

"_Wounds?_" Reggie repeated. "Would someone like to tell Sammy and I what the hell is happening now? Is Twister okay?"

"He had a bunch of cuts on his arms," Otto reported, before Tito could quell the discussion. "Really deep ones. He wouldn't say where they were from, but they're all in little rows and stuff, like he fell on a machine or something."

Reggie and Sam gained the same dire expressions Tito and Ray had a few minutes ago, and Otto felt the tables turn; now, he was out of the loop. Why were they all reacting like this?

"He couldn't have," Sam blurted. "He's Twister."

"Like that makes him magically immune," Reggie replied bleakly.

"Granted. But he's not... I dunno, not the type? He's happy with his lot in life."

"Is he, though? What if he's not? What if... what if it's just a front? If he's hurting enough inside to... to do _that_..."

"Hey, little cuzes, take it easy," Tito interrupted. "We don't know for sure yet. Let's wait for the facts."

And wait, they did, in uneasy silence, as they watched Twister and Ray in discussion. Twister, from what they could tell, hadn't looked up once, his face still hidden under his hood. Only faint snippets of sentences reached the camp, and when they heard Twister's voice, they realized it was choked with tears.

It was a long old hour, just waiting there. Tito tried to distract the rest of the crew with cards, but even his heart was not in it. Otto, more frustrated than any of them, had finally snapped, before Tito calmly explained what they suspected. Once the theory was out in the open, it drained everyone, and put dread into their souls.

The dread grew heavier when Ray and Twister finally returned to camp.

Twister walked like a condemned man, dragging his feet, and keeping his head bowed, out of shame. Ray had a gentle hand on his shoulder, and when they saw the bags under Ray's eyes, accompanied by the deeply sorrowful lines on his brow, the fears reached new heights. Otto stood as they came near, unable to take it any longer.

"Twister, are you okay?" he asked, his voice uneven.

"He's gonna be alright," Ray replied. "Go ahead and sit down, Twist. I'm gonna get the first aid kit, okay?"

Twister didn't respond, but did as directed, taking a seat as far from the others as he could reasonably get.


	53. Chapter 52

Otto didn't want to be here. He would rather have spent his time out on the waves, or on his board in the half pipe, even if that meant ignoring the problem now faced by the crew. He loved the hell out of Twister, he really did... but he wasn't sure he had the strength to face this oncoming storm. He didn't know how to help, or where to even begin, and instead of facing the issue, he'd have been happy to deny it.

This view wasn't shared by Sam and Reggie. They had done all the organization for this little pow-wow, and Otto had been pressured into it by his sister. Now, sitting on a nondescript bench along the boardwalk, Otto regretted her power over him.

He wasn't quite prepared for the topic to go the way it did.

"I think Twister is being abused."

The statement came quietly; Sam was unnaturally still as he said it, as if he wasn't quite sure he believed it himself. It threw both Rocket siblings for a loop, and they stared openly at Sam.

"We don't know that-" Reggie began.

"He's exhibiting classic signs," Sam argued, before she could finish. "He's seventeen, Reg. It's not normal for a seventeen-year-old to wet his pants like that. He flinches at every tiny movement. He apologizes for stuff he didn't even do. He looks constantly _terrified_, and he's got suspicious marks on his body. If either of you have a better explanation for all of this, I'm open to suggestions, because I don't like it any more than you do."

Reggie fell silent, paling at the implications, while Otto turned away, embarrassed by Sam's bluntness. And it _had been_ embarrassing; they'd all been there, when Twister had blatantly lost control, right in the middle of a public area. He'd looked so frightened that any laughter they might have had in store for him was erased.

The thing was, they couldn't pinpoint what, exactly, had set him off, and Twister wasn't terribly forthcoming, either. He'd been too ashamed, and too afraid, to do anything except bolt, losing his friends in the crowd.

"I didn't want to say anything before," Sam went on, looking haggard and ill, "But the amusement park incident is... um... well, it's a-a... it's..."

"Spit it out, Squid!" Otto growled.

"It's a red flag for... for sexual abuse," Sam finished weakly. "Usually, it's a sign in younger kids, but... um... god, I don't really know how to say this. If he's wetting himself like that, it's an involuntary fear response, and possibly a defense mechanism. Uh... molesters don't... they don't often continue the abuse if the victim does that on themselves during... during..."

He couldn't finish. He looked as if he might be sick, and with Sam, it wasn't far from the realm of possibility. Reggie set a steadying hand on his shoulder, though she also looked unwell. Otto, on the other hand, was openly disgusted.

"_Sexual_ abuse?" he repeated. "No. No _way_, Sammy. That's... there's just no way. It's Twister! He's stronger than that."

"It's not his fault he's being abused!" Reggie snapped. "And it doesn't mean he's weak. That has nothing to do with it. How can you even _think_ that?!"

"He's a guy, Reg!"

"So? Otto, I hate to break it to your fragile ego, but dudes get hurt like that, too."

"So you're saying someone basically stuck their dick in his ass?"

"Not in as many words," Sam replied, going green. "And we don't know who might be doing this to him... it could be a woman."

Otto blinked. Before he could open his mouth, Reggie scowled at him. "Yes, guys can be abused by girls, too," she told him.

"But... that's just normal sex."

"Not if he didn't consent – and, if his abuser is an adult, he can't consent, no matter what. I don't understand what your hangup with this is. If his mom is hurting him like that, would you still call it 'normal sex'?"

Sam shot off the bench, flinging himself to the nearest bin. The siblings paused only to cringe, but never broke from their glaring contest.

"That's just wrong," Otto muttered.

"Yes. It is," Reggie agreed.

"But why would he fuck his MOM?! Is he sick or something?"

Reggie gave a frustrated yell, frightening both Otto and a recovering Sam, as well as several passersby. "Rocket Boy. Repeat after me: It is NOT. Twister's fault."

Otto gulped. "It's not... Twister's fault?"

"You better start believing those words; Twist doesn't need you ragging on him over this. Whoever's hurting him is probably making him feel ashamed enough without your help. He didn't _ask_ for this, Otto."

"Which brings us back to whom it might be," Sam said tiredly, sitting back down.

They thought in silence, trying to pinpoint possible suspects, but each one was terrible to consider. Was it Lars? His own _brother?_ They knew well enough that Lars could be downright mean, but he'd shown more than enough times that he cared about Twister, and didn't want anything bad to actually happen to him. What about Raoul, then? The idea of his father being the abuser was just as sick as the possibility of his mother taking that title.

"Okay," Reggie breathed, "Let's narrow it down. When did he show up to school with that black eye?"

"Two weeks back," Otto said at once. "Before the semi-finals."

"Right. And his mom was away at a work conference in Bakersfield that week. So it can't be her."

"So it's either Lars or his dad?"

"Not necessarily," Sam interrupted, with a grimace. "There's the possibility that they may all take part in it. It's not uncommon for families to gang up like that on one target, to avoid becoming victims themselves."

"Jesus, Sam."

"Sorry. I know it's not an easy subject."

"Okay, but I _really_ didn't need the mental image of his whole family holding him down to gang-bang him!"

"Guys," Reggie said, her eyes going wide.

"Don't lay that on me, dude," Sam said irritably. "It's _your_ imagination."

"Well, you were the one who came up with the suggestion! Ugh. I need mind bleach."

"Guys."

"You could be a little more sensitive about this, Otto! It's not some joke or something to make fun of. It's Twister we're talking about – you know. Our _best friend?!_"

"I'm not saying it like a joke! Or that he's not our friend. Seriously. I love that dude to death, but I just can't fucking see him being... being sexually abused-"

"GUYS!"

Sam and Otto startled out of their quarrel, glancing questioningly at Reggie. She wasn't looking their way, however; rather, her eyes stared ahead unblinkingly, in shock, at something not far from their position. No... not something. Some_one_.

Both boys followed her line of sight slowly, and there was Twister, standing before them on his roller blades. Their hearts leaped to their throats, for they saw in his eyes that he'd heard far too much.

"Twister!" Sam greeted nervously. "H-hi."

Twister didn't respond. He'd gone awfully pale, and seemed frozen in place, an expression of stark terror on his face. Reggie, seeing his panic rising, stood from the bench, electing to abandon all pretense, there and then.

"Twister, why don't you come sit down with us?" she offered gently.

He backed away a step. "Wh-why were you... were you talking a-a-about that?"

The trio glanced desperately between themselves, seeking a quick answer; this really hadn't been how they'd planned to approach Twister with this subject.

"I'll be honest," Reggie went on, "We're worried about you."

"M-me? Nothing's going on. I'm f-fine. Nothing like that, no."

His denial was painfully overdone. He took another step back, on the defensive, and in doing so, stumbled into the path of a pair of shoobies. As he collided with them, one of them gave a loud scoff of irritated disgust, and put her hand against his back, to shove him away.

His reaction was immediate. He went rigid with a choking gasp, that terror turning all the way up to absolute, blind panic. He lost his balance, dropping to the ground, and the moment he was off his feet, he brought his arms right up over his head, curling up in a protective position.

"Watch where you're going next time, young man!" the lady snapped.

Reggie came between the pair and Twister, while Sam and Otto stood. "Sorry, ma'am," Reggie said automatically. "Won't happen again."

"I should hope not!" she leaned around Reggie, squinting down at Twister. "What on earth is he doing?"

Her husband snorted. "Cowering."

Reggie glared. "Please continue," she said pointedly, gesturing down the boardwalk. "Don't let us hold you up."

Grudgingly, the couple complied, casting sneers over their shoulders as they went. In the peace that followed, however, they all heard the stifled, fearful cries coming from Twister. Reggie turned on her heel, and joined Sam and Otto, the three of them crouching beside Twister.

"It's okay, Twist," Reggie said gently, wanting to reach out, but stopping herself in time, as she recalled his flinching. "They're gone now."

"I'm sorry, mama! I'm sorry. Please, I'm sorry!" Twister bleated through his arms, rocking in place. "I'm sorry."

His friends felt their hearts catch fire at his words.

"Twister, it's okay," Sam said quietly. "You're safe. Nobody is going to hurt you."

…

Sam had been right.

When the details had emerged, at long last, and the police uncovered the darkest secret of the Rodriguez household, it became painfully clear just how badly Twister had been abused. As for whom had taken part, there was no DNA evidence to suggest his immediate family had done anything but beat him. There was, however, plenty of evidence pointing to something far worse, and it started with the space Twister slept in.

The space he was forced to sleep in with countless 'customers'.

Sam, Reggie and Otto had only briefly glimpsed the inside of that terrible little basement, but it was enough to leave a lifetime of scars. An entire 'dungeon' had been constructed there, with Twister as its centerpiece, made to be used and toyed with in all manner of perverse fantasies. When Officer Shirley and the police questioned the trio, Sam had ended up off the questioning line for uncontrollable nausea, due solely to the nature of the queries.


	54. Chapter 53

Otto and Twister looked like a pair of zombies, shuffling as they did towards the dining table, and casting themselves into their seats. Reggie, Clio and Sam smirked at their approach, while Ray, Tito and Noelani all appeared appropriately grim.

"How was your day, boys?" Ray asked neutrally.

Otto groaned. "It sucked."

"Really. I'd never have guessed. I hope you've both learned something from this."

"Yeah! Next time, don't get caught."

"Otto."

Sighing heavily, Otto gave his dad a look. "Sorry, dad. We get it. We won't trespass on the new slopes again."

Ray nodded, satisfied, then turned to Twister. "And you, Twister?"

Twister didn't seem to register Ray's question. He had a vacant look about him – which was not that unusual, in itself – and seemed almost to be falling asleep at the table. Clio nudged her cousin with her foot, alerting him, and he stared at her.

"Huh?"

"Raymundo is talking to you, Maurice," Clio said pointedly.

"Oh. Hi, Raymundo."

Ray rolled his eyes, but didn't press the issue. Tito and Noelani took the hint, and began bringing out the evening's dinner. Otto eyed the hot pot ravenously, and barely managed to keep his manners in check, waiting impatiently while everyone else got their servings of stew. The second the adults sat down, he began digging in like a starving man, causing Tito to chuckle, and finally breaking the awkward silence.

Twister showed no such appetite, and while everyone else dug in, he absently played with his spoon, still not really seeing much. Tito noticed this first, and set his own spoon down to observe the boy. Both Twister and Otto had entered the cabin with flushed faces – what else, after a day spent clearing snow from every driveway and porch in the resort? - but Otto's look had already faded. Twister, on the other hand, still looked like he'd just marched in from the cold, for the amount of red in his face.

"Hey, Twister-cuz," Tito nudged him. "Try some stew. It's pretty good, if I do say so myself."

"Hmm?"

"_Eat_, bruddah. Get your strength back."

Twister shook his head tiredly. "No thanks, Tito. I don't feel very hungry."

_That _particular comment stilled every soul at the table, and everyone stared at Twister.

"Not... hungry?" Sam repeated slowly. "Who are you, again?"

Twister set his spoon down, and didn't respond. As before, he didn't look much like he'd actually heard Sam, and Noelani stood up, walking around the table to him. She set her hand to his forehead, and he bore this in silence, blinking slowly.

Noelani frowned with worry. "He has a fever."

"Sure it's not just working heat?" Ray asked, smiling jokingly.

"Ray, he's on fire," Noelani said quietly, causing Ray's smile to fade quickly. "Did you bring a thermometer?"

"I've got one, in my mom's first aid bag," Sam put in, standing to retrieve it.

"Poor Maurice," Clio remarked, tilting her head at her cousin. "You've overworked yourself again, haven't you?"

"Wait. What do you mean, 'again'?" Tito asked suspiciously.

Clio sighed dramatically. "It was the same thing last month, when he visited us for the weekend. He doesn't seem to understand the meaning of 'take a break'."

Otto scowled. "It's not like we had much of a choice today."

"Did he ever stop to rest today with you at all, do you know?" Ray demanded.

"Uh... I didn't really see him that much, actually. We sort of split the work. He'd take one house, and I'd do the one next to it. That kind of thing."

"Twister?" Ray waved his hands in front of the boy's unfocused eyes. "Did you take any breaks today?"

Twister stared at him dully. "Breaks?"

"Yeah. As in, rest. Did you stop for lunch?"

"Oh... no, not really. Why?"

"Twister!" Reggie scolded.

"Huh?"

"He's out of it, Reggie, let him be," Clio muttered, as she copied Noelani, and placed her hand to her cousin's scorching forehead. "We can both yell at him later for this."

Sam returned then, bearing a digital thermometer. "You're in luck, Twist. It's not a rectal thermometer this time."

"Rectal?" Twister mumbled, clueless.

"Never mind. Don't worry about it. Open up your mouth, and keep this under your tongue, alright?"

Twister complied, at first. After a few moments, though, he seemed to forget the instructions, and tried to pull the thermometer out. Noelani stopped him, holding it in place for him, and moving his hand away, while the group waited, watching. Otto snuck a few more bites of stew in the meantime.

The moment the thermometer beeped, Noelani withdrew it, holding it up to read it. Her eyes grew wide. "103," she read out in a whisper.

"Jeez, Twist," Sam remarked.

"Is that bad?" Twister asked slowly.

"It's not great," Sam looked at Ray, "We should call the resort medical center – get them to send someone out here, now."

"Already on it," Reggie said, rising to dash to the cabin phone.

"In the meantime, let's get you up to bed, buddy," Ray told Twister. "Tito?"

Both men moved to Twister's side, helping him up out of his seat. Twister staggered in their hold, barely able to keep on his feet without their help. He mumbled something incoherent, then let himself be carried off to his room.

Otto watched them go, feeling uneasy. "He's gonna be okay, right?"

"I hope so," Noelani said nervously.

…

Twister saw everything through a confusing haze. He was faintly aware that people around him were whispering, but he couldn't make any of it out. He could hear his own, labored breathing, and felt gentle hands easing him up, but his thoughts remained puddled and jumbled.

"Here, let's get him out of his clothes," someone close by said.

He wanted to protest, as he felt hands pulling articles of clothing from his body. Why were they undressing him? He didn't truly have the sense of mind to feel embarrassed when his boxers also came off, and once he was naked, he felt a little relieved. Some of the awful heat radiating throughout him dissipated, and he gave a weak sigh, letting his eyes close.

His world became a jumble of dreams and reality. Sometimes, there would be more whispers, and other times, he'd wake himself, calling from strange, twisting nightmares, before someone would come and soothe it all away. There were moments of freezing cold, where he shivered violently, and clung to a blanket. Other times, the heat became unbearable, and he was left drenched in sweat, and wishing he could somehow remove his own skin.

Once or twice, he swore someone was holding him up again, and during those times, the sweetest, coolest water would grace his lips, bringing his parched throat to rest. Sometimes, it wasn't water, but a vile liquid that left him gagging. When the next session of this came, and he smelled the liquid, he turned his head away with a whine.

"It's okay, Twister. It's medicine. It's to help with your fever," one of the voices said.

The edge of the cup came to his lips, and he opened his eyes, turning his head the other way, and struggling weakly against the hold. He felt something splash down his front, and heard a frustrated sigh.

"Twister. Stop," said the voice at his ear. "You need to take this. Let me help you, buddy."

"What's up, bruddah? He okay?"

"He's fighting me. Can you help me with him a sec? Refill the cup and then keep him still."

"Tito? Raymundo?" Twister called, frowning as both names slurred horribly off his tongue.

"That's right," Ray said gently. "Let us help you, Twister."

"I don't wanna take it," Twister mumbled. "I don't wanna."

"I know, buddy, but it's really important that you try to take it. It's gonna help bring your fever down, okay?"

Twister blinked, still only seeing distorted haze and shapes, and forgot why Ray was telling him this. It was a surprise, then, to find a cup at his lips, and he found someone was holding him still – firmly but gently – while thick syrup trickled down his throat. He retched, and the trickling stopped, but another hand clasped his mouth shut, so he couldn't spit the mixture back up.

Ray and Tito both hated this; hated that they had to be so forceful with Twister, who barely knew that he was fighting. The teen was terribly weak and disoriented, and it was easy to pin him down, which made the feeling so much worse. But it had to be done, and little by little, they managed to get him to drink the medicine.

He was crying by the end of it, but sleep claimed him quickly, so persistent was his illness. Ray carefully eased the boy back down to the bed, before he tucked the blanket up over Twister's waist. He waited for a moment, watching Twister closely, and when he felt sure that Twister's breathing had evened out, he reached out and gave the kid's hair an affectionate rub.

"God, I hate this, Tito. He should be out there with the others, enjoying himself."

Tito kept his eyes on Twister, but set a comforting hand on Ray's shoulder. "He'll recover soon. He's young and strong."

"It's been two days," Ray protested. "What if-"

"Ah! Don't start down that path, remember. No what-ifs."

Ray fell silent a moment, letting his hand fall away from Twister. "Just tell me I didn't do this. Tell me... tell me I didn't drive him to this with that punishment."

Tito rolled his eyes. "Been over that, too, bruddah. He chose not to rest when his body needed it. As much as it hurts to see, it's still mostly his fault. But he'll still recover."

Ray was only half convinced. With great reluctance, he let Tito guide him out of Twister's room. As they made their way back downstairs, they heard soft chatter, and arrived in the lobby, to find that Clio, Noelani and Reggie had returned from a friendly, three-way ice skating showdown.

"Hey, ladies," Ray greeted, as warmly as he could. "You have a good time?"

Noelani gave him a flustered look. "You can take the girl outta Hawaii..."

Tito chuckled. "But you can't take the Hawaiian out on the ice," he finished, winking at his cousin.

"How's Twister doing?" Reggie asked, as she removed her outdoor clothes.

Ray sighed wearily. "Just gave him his medicine. He was a little feisty about it today, but he was at least a little more alert, too."

"Can we go see him?"

"Sure," Ray agreed, before frowning. "Tito, you better go in first. Make sure he's still covered."

Despite the situation, Reggie and Clio both snickered. They had both been wise enough to let someone else enter Twister's room before they came in, to spare awkwardness. Sam was indifferent, but Otto hadn't been nearly as careful, and his resulting embarrassment was a source of great entertainment.

Noelani didn't approve. "He's sick, you two. He can't help it."

"It's not my poor cousin's overexposure we're laughing at, really," Clio told her with a smile. "It's Otto."

"Oh, I see. That's different, then," Noelani worked only for a moment to hid a cheeky grin, but failed, and the three of them burst into fits of laughter.

They sobered up fairly quickly when they reached the top of the stairs. Tito peeked into Twister's room, then beckoned, and they filed in anxiously, mirth turning to sad worry, as they saw just how sick Twister still looked. He'd curled up on his side, under the blanket, and was back to shivering, the sheets beneath him soaked in sweat.


	55. Chapter 54

Reggie sat up unsteadily, her back aching from the recent impact with the dirt. She felt around under her now hole-ridden shirt, and winced, as she came across the site for a brand new, walloping scab. Her mountain board lay some distance away, the bindings torn off from the impact.

A series of groans next to her alerted her of the presence of Sam. "You okay, Sammy?"

"No," came the whining reply. "My arms look like Mrs. Stimpleton's meatloaf."

Reggie winced. "I think the same goes for my back."

She climbed gingerly to her feet, then staggered over to Sam to help him up. Her eyes widened at the amount of blood on his arms.

"Jeez, Sammy."

"It'll clot in a minute," Sam said tiredly, adjusting his crooked glasses.

"You see where Otto and Twist went?" Reggie asked.

Sam pointed down the hill, and Reggie made out the dust-covered, sprawled form of her younger brother, also evidently recovering from a major wipe-out. The pair made their way down to him, moving considerably more slowly than they would on a normal day. Otto sat up as they reached him, planting a hand over his gushing nose.

"Ow," he remarked.

"Pinch the bridge of your nose," Sam advised. "And lean forward. Leaning your head back will only make it run down your throat."

"Where's the first aid kit?" Otto replied nasally.

"In the car. Back up the hill."

As she checked Otto over to make sure he was still in one piece, Reggie frowned, glancing about. "Otto, where's Twister?"

"I think he beefed it right after I did," Otto waved his hand downhill.

They all looked down the trail, scanning for their friend. Reggie cupped her hands to her mouth. "Twister! Are you okay?"

There was no reply, and though they knew he couldn't have gotten far, the silence made them all uneasy. Sam and Reggie helped Otto to his feet, and they began limping down the trail, calling for Twister. When they came over a rocky rise, Reggie spotted his camera, lying like an abandoned toy. She picked it up, checking it for damage, and saw that the lens and view screen had both been smashed.

"He's gonna be pissed," Sam said. "No, scratch that – his _parents_ are gonna be pissed-"

"There he is! Twister!" Otto called, pointing.

He began trotting along, and Sam and Reggie moved to catch up, spotting their friend. At first, they moved carefully, still sore from the impact, but when they saw that Twister hadn't moved or responded to their hails, they quickened to a run, sending up clouds of dust as they went, and they barely managed to slow down to a halt, all dropping to their knees by their motionless friend's side.

Twister was, by all appearances, unconscious, his eyelids fluttering wildly, while his jaw hung slack. He was extremely pale, and this close to him, they saw that he wasn't completely still; his fingers twitched, and his breathing was audibly strained. Sam's hand flew out immediately to test Twister's pulse.

"Check him for injuries," he commanded. "Don't remove his helmet or move him in any way."

Reggie and Otto complied, their own wounds forgotten as they began prying up and down their friend's body for signs of damage. It soon became fairly obvious where he was hurt.

"His leg," Otto muttered, gulping. "Guys... his leg..."

Reggie and Sam both looked, and felt cold chills sweep their bodies, as they saw that Twister's leg was bent at a slightly odd angle, below the knee. The pant leg there bore a dark stain that they recognized as blood, but this was no ordinary, superficial damage, for the cloth was torn by a jutting edge of something sharp.

"Oh, god," Reggie blurted, recoiling, as she identified it: Bone.

"Compound fracture," Sam said worriedly. "Not good. I need one of you to try to call emergency services, right now."

"I left my phone in the car-" Otto began, leaping to his feet.

"Go. And hurry. We need to get him to a hospital, right now. Bring the kit back with you, too."

While Otto began sprinting back up the hill, Reggie and Sam both fought back their squeamishness, and tried to put what they knew about fractures to the test. Twister remained unresponsive as they investigated his leg further, and when Reggie thought that perhaps it was better that he was unconscious, as it became clear just how badly he'd broken his leg.

"He's still bleeding," she reported to Sam, who was keeping constant watch over Twister's vitals.

"Pressure," Sam replied.

"Even with the... the bone sticking out like that?"

"Yes. The important thing is to make sure he's not losing too much blood. We'll worry about bracing it afterward."

"I just hope he didn't pass out from bleeding..."

"Doesn't look like it. There's not much out of him yet... it was probably the pain that did it."

"Like Otto at the hockey game," Reggie muttered, as she pulled out her pocket knife, and began cutting away Twister's other pant leg, to use it as bandage material.

Sam began calling repeatedly to Twister, praying for some kind of response. As Reggie began wrapping Twister's leg, Sam got what he wished for. Twister regained consciousness, and for a few moments, he battled with disorientation, drawing in sharper breaths as he came to.

"Twister?" Sam tried, "It's Sam and Reggie. Try to keep as still as you can – you're hurt."

"Sammy?" Twister mumbled, frowning. "Wh-what happened? Did... did we make it?"

"No. Everybody wiped out, you included," Sam set a hand to the boy's chest, as he tried to rise. "Stay still."

"It feels weird," Twister replied. "My leg... it feels wrong... why does it feel like that?" Panic began to show on his face, and in its wake, the pain returned to him. "Ow... god, ow!"

"Easy, Twist. Take it easy. Deep breaths."

"It hurts. It hurts a lot, Sam, it really fucking hurts!"

"I know. I'm sorry."

Reggie looked back at them. "Twist, I need to tighten your bandage," she began uneasily. "It's gonna hurt a lot more, but I have to stop your bleeding."

Twister stared at her, breathing hard, and whatever color there had been left in his cheeks drained away, as he saw what had become of his leg. "Don't, Reg, please!" he cried.

"It's gonna be okay," Sam soothed, carefully bracing Twister's shoulders. "Look at me, buddy. Look this way, alright?"

"Here we go," Reggie warned them, before taking a deep breath, and pulling the cloth tight.

She almost lost her grip on it then, as Twister went rigid and _screamed_, his whole body spasming from the agony. Sam had a tough time keeping him down, and Reggie had to lean her weight on Twister's thighs to keep him from kicking. She worked as quickly as she could, hating that her action was hurting him so.

His struggles didn't last long. His howl died to a whimper abruptly, and Sam could do nothing but watch, as Twister's eyes rolled right back, and his body fell limp again. When his head dropped back, he began drawing in snorting, choking breaths, and Sam cautiously straightened and braced his head.

"He okay?" Reggie asked, still focused on the bandage.

"He passed out again," Sam reported sadly.

"God... why is he choking like that?"

"It happens sometimes. Think of it like snoring. His body's just reacting, is all."

"I don't like it," Reggie admitted. "It sounds like he's having a seizure or something."

"I don't like it, either," Sam agreed, "But he'll wake up in a minute, hopefully. You done with the wrapping?"

Reggie nodded, tying off the last strip. "Now what?"

"We need to find something to brace his leg with..." Sam looked around doubtfully. "A branch or something would be good."

Reggie blinked, a light bulb going off in her head. "Stay with him. I have an idea."

She got up and bolted back up the hill, leaving Sam to tend to Twister. She didn't go far, however; just far enough to reach her brother's abandoned mountain board. She snagged it up mid-run, turned, and sprinted back down again, taking only a few moments to complete the task.


	56. Chapter 55

Otto looked up from the straps of his roller blades, frowning as he heard a fizzing noise. He saw Twister, sitting on the bench nearby, with his hands inside his backpack, like he was messing with something. The fizzing noise originated from in there, and Twister appeared to be trying to cover it with sounds from the pack. He saw Otto watching him, and quickly tried to act casual – which, in Twister's case, never worked.

Otto smirked. "What you got there, Twister?" he said loudly, attracting Reggie and Sam's attention.

"Nothing," Twister said, too quickly.

"I see. So if I were to, say... look inside your backpack, I'd find nothing?"

"Y-yeah. Nothing."

Otto moved as if to get up, and Twister overreacted, pulling his pack out of reach. Otto's grin faded, as he saw just how fearful Twister looked in that moment. He sat back down, but Sam, sitting behind Twister, crept up and peered over his oblivious friend's shoulder. He cocked his head, puzzled, and in one deft move, reached into the pack and grabbed something, before Twister even had a chance to react.

"Sammy, wait! Don't!" Twister cried, lunging.

Too late. Sam had already withdrawn, wielding...

A water bottle.

Sam raised an eyebrow, holding it up, to see that the contents were fizzing. "Some secret," he muttered. "Are those soluble tablets I see in there?"

"N-no. They're nothing, dude, just give it back, please," Twister had stood up now, and was anxiously watching Sam, as if the bottle were filled with something dangerous.

"Twist, calm down," Reggie remarked, confused by his fear. "What's in that stuff, anyway?"

"It's for... uh... for my stomach!" Twister blurted, in another painfully obvious lie. "Yeah. My stomach."

"You're taking stomachache medicine?" Otto snickered. "What are you, 70?"

"No! I just n-need to take them. Squid, _please_, give it back!"

Sam made no move to return the bottle. His eyes darted between Twister, the bottle, and Twister's pack, which still lay open on the bench. Still suspicious as to the contents of the 'water', Sam thought quickly, and suddenly tossed the bottle to Twister, aiming a little high, so as to make him lose balance. As Twister scrambled to catch it, Sam went for the pack, grabbed it, and pulled it all the way open.

A small, red cardboard box fell into his lap. Twister, recovering his catch, saw this, and froze in place, his face going utterly white. Sam eyed the label, holding the box up in a daze, as he read both medicine name and contents.

Otto snorted. "I don't think Twist is gonna share his stomachache pills with you, Squid."

"You okay, Sammy?" Reggie asked, staring, as Sam's expression changed.

Slowly, Sam looked up, to meet Twister's eye, dread filling his core. Twister looked back, filled with guilt, fear... and something else entirely. A desperate, hollow look, that belonged on the faces of the sick and the damned, and not on the face of a seventeen-year-old boy.

Sam swallowed. "Twister," he said quietly, "Were you going to drink this now?"

All three of them looked at Twister. Even Otto sobered, as he sensed the undercurrent of tension. Twister took a step back from them, clinging tightly to the water bottle.

"I-it's not what it looks like," he croaked.

"Oh, I see," Sam replied, setting Twister's pack down forcefully, and holding up the box. "So you're telling me you weren't sitting here, inches away from us, putting _opiate drugs_ in your water?"

Reggie gasped, and Otto's eyes went wide. Twister took another step back, visibly trembling.

"Sam?" Reggie said, eyeing the box. "Tell me you're joking."

"It's no joke. These are water-soluble _morphine_ pills. Powerful ones."

All three of them fell utterly silent, and their stares grew angry and accusatory. Twister looked ready to bolt, but after a full minute of this standoff, he sank to the ground, sitting defeated, and began to cry. Ordinarily, this might have evoked a compassionate response in his friends, who knew him to be extremely sensitive. Right now, however, there wasn't an ounce of pity in them.

"I'm sorry," Twister choked, hanging his head. "I d-didn't mean for you to find out like this."

"Obviously not, dude," Otto said flatly. "_Not_ cool. At all."

"After all those stupid health classes about drugs, you decided it would be a good idea to actually take them?!" Reggie demanded, her anger breaking through. "What is _wrong_ with you, Maurice?!"

The use of his true name made Twister flinch, and he couldn't look at them. He was a pathetic sight, still gripping the water bottle tightly, as Reggie and Otto both began yelling at him over one another. Sam said nothing, watching the proceedings grimly. It was then that another whim prompted him to investigate the contents of the box... the very light box.

As the yelling carried on, Sam opened it with reluctant fingers, afraid of what he would find. Had Twister really taken so many already, for the box to be so light? How long had this been going on? Wracking his brains, he thought back on how many times today Twister had refilled his bottle. Once or twice, perhaps – no more than ordinary. But had he been dosing himself each time?

The answer almost made his heart stop, as he found himself looking at the discarded wrappings of several dozen pills.

"Twister," Sam broke through the ranting, throwing both Rocket siblings into quiet, with the sheer level of seriousness in his voice, "I'd like you to give me that bottle, please. Right now."

Twister's breath caught, and he glanced up sharply at Sam. There was more confusion in his eyes – eyes that were clear of drugs. Sam almost wished he'd seen the obvious signs of pupil contraction, or sluggishness, because that would have made things so much easier. But Twister was clear-eyed, and suddenly, his hollow look made far too much sense, as he kept an iron hold on that water bottle.

"Give me the bottle," Sam repeated, slowly standing up.

"No," Twister bleated back, also rising, and withdrawing further, until his back met the corner between the park wall and the fence.

"Dude! Even now, you're still gonna take it?" Otto demanded. "Fucking drug addict!"

"Shut up, Otto," Sam said sharply. "He's not trying to get high. Are you, Twister?"

"Leave me alone," Twister mumbled through tears.

Sam took several calming breaths, trying to sort through the storm of emotions that had hit him in the last five minutes. "Twister, buddy. You know I can't do that."

"Why not? It's what was gonna happen anyway," Twister countered bitterly. "That's what's gonna happen tomorrow. And forever after that."

Tomorrow? Sam frowned. They had their first day of school tomorrow... which, he realized, was when he, Reggie and Otto would all share classes together, because Twister had been held back. Sam's heart gave a pang; they had long ago discussed this, and Twister had dismissed it, saying he'd expected to be held back. The subject had dropped, and they'd all assumed he was okay with it, so long as they still hung out together.

Clearly, this was one lie Twister had actually gotten away with.

"We're not gonna leave you behind," Sam told him firmly. "Do you understand me? You're our best friend, Twister. We wouldn't dream of it."

"Speak for yourself!" Otto growled.

"Can it, Otto!" Reggie shot back, as she slowly began catching on to what Sam was suggesting. "I'm with Sammy: No matter what, we'll always be your friend. Even... even when you do stupid things like this."

But Twister shook his head, sliding back down to sit. "I'm failing high school," he said, his voice oddly devoid of emotion. "I'm failing because I don't learn the same way. They made me drop A/V. They made me drop everything I loved, like that's gonna help me somehow. And when I fail, there's gonna be nothing left, man. Nothing for me."

He began fiddling with the bottle, as if he would open it, but instead, he turned it over absently, staring down at it, as if he were seeing it for the first time. Then, he gave an empty, toothy grin – a death-like grimace – that sent chills down their spines.

"You weren't supposed to find out," he finished, the grin fading. "Not yet."

"How many are in there, Twist?" Sam whispered, trying to steadily approach his friend.

"Lots. It was supposed to be all of them."

"Oh, god," Reggie breathed, as the last puzzle piece fell into place for her. "Twister, you... you _can't_. You were really going to...?"

"Why couldn't you just leave it?!" Twister snarled suddenly, making them jump. "You had to ask what it was! You couldn't just _leave_ it!"

"Reg, what the fuck is going on?" Otto whispered out the side of his mouth.

"He was gonna take them all," Reggie replied, just as quietly. "He was gonna kill himself."

"He was gonna WHAT?!"

Sam flapped a hand at both of them, never for a second taking his eyes away from Twister. Twister was openly sobbing now, and he'd stopped turning the bottle over. His features showed the conflict inside his head, plain as day, and plain as the trembling fingers that gripped the cap, ready to twist it off.

"Listen to me, buddy," Sam said evenly, "We're gonna get you some help, alright? We're gonna do everything we can to get you through this."

"I don't want help anymore, Squid," Twister replied tiredly, staring right at him. "I just don't."

Before Sam could muster a reply, Twister suddenly wrenched the cap off the bottle, and began chugging the contents.

"No! Twister, NO!"

The trio shot off the benches, bolting towards Twister, and near about tackling him. The water bottle flew out of his grip, knocked forcefully away by Otto, but by in those precious few moments, Twister had downed almost the entire thing, and precious little remained. Sam immediately went for his pocket, drawing out his phone, and Twister cried out and tried to grab it from him. Reggie and Otto restrained him, as Sam quickly dialed 911.

"Let GO of me!" Twister howled, bucking and kicking against the siblings.

Neither of them replied. Otto kept his arms pinned, while Reggie, thinking quickly, pulled Twister forward. Otto gave her a confused look.

"Keep hold of him," Reggie instructed.

Otto obeyed, barely keeping grip on his squirming friend. Reggie moved around and grabbed the back of Twister's neck with one hand, before she forcefully crammed her fingers into his mouth with the other. Caught off-guard, and completely unprepared for this invasive, shocking attack, Twister could do nothing, as Reggie forced her fingers all the way to the back of his throat.

At first, he only gagged, but Reggie kept that hold on him, and Otto, understanding what she was trying to do, switched his hold, slamming both his fists into Twister's stomach. The response was instantaneous, as the combined effort brought what he'd drunk right back up again. Reggie withdrew her hand as Twister threw up, water spilling up out of his mouth.

Hating herself for it, she then repeated the action again. And again.

Sirens sounded in the distance by the time she stopped forcing him to be sick, and Twister lay limply in the hold of his friends, retching and crying in utter humiliation and defeat. By now, the commotion had attracted several skaters and passerby, and Conroy had been summoned at last. The skate park manager rushed over to the group, looking agitated.

"What's going on here?" he demanded. "Reggie, Otto – let him go. I'll not have fighting in my park!"

Sam pulled him aside at once. "Sorry, Conroy, but he's... he's really sick," he said in a low voice. "I've called an ambulance."

"Sick?" Conroy squinted at Twister, then saw the mess on the ground near him. "Why they holding onto him like a pair of angry crabs, man?"

"I... I don't know how to explain this," Sam glanced around at the gawking crowd. "Not in front of everyone."

Fortunately, Conroy caught his apprehension. "Understood, Sammy. But once he has help, I expect one of you to meet me at my trailer and explain."

Sam nodded, but Conroy didn't press him to promise. They remained nearby, watching as Twister began struggling again, as the ambulance came pulling up to the park. Whispers abounded from the onlookers; nearly all of them attended Ocean Shores High School, and knew the gang well. They weren't sure what to make of this scene of Twister, being restrained by medical personnel, and hauled into the back of the ambulance, with Otto climbing in after him.

…

Twister kept his eyes down, moving with his head and shoulders somewhat bent, as he stuck close to his friends in the halls. They tried to stay cheerful for his sake, and kept a tight formation with him, to encourage him, but really, they were all nervous. It was Twister's first day back at school, after a long three months of heavy intervention, and a sea of doctors and diagnoses.

Word had gotten around since then, and – like all word in schools rampant with teenagers – it had quickly turned to rumor and malicious speculation. By the time the gang had gotten news that Twister was coming back, they'd heard everything under the sun about him: He was an attention-seeker; he was a drug addict coming down from a cocaine OD; he'd been in jail; he'd been institutionalized because he'd tried to kill someone; and so on. Each of these nasty little stories had a tiny grain of truth hidden within, and some details always remained consistent, like his suicide attempt.

"I don't wanna be here," Twister remarked balefully, as whispers followed them to their classes.

"It'll be okay, dude," Otto said confidently, casting glares left, right and center at any student who dared so much as breathe in Twister's direction. "We got your back, remember?"

"Yeah, until the bell rings."


	57. Chapter 56

"If someone had told me, like, five years ago, that I'd love coming to this place, I'd have thought they were high."

Reggie, Sam, Trish and Sherry all laughed openly at Otto's comment. The fact was, though, that they'd all hated these school camping trips when they were younger. Now, as teens, it gave them a great excuse to get away from home, and while there were still rules, it was something different; less suffocating.

"You guys hear the news?" Trish said excitedly. "They're gonna open up the Jacuzzi tomorrow. Hello, chill time!"

The group shared a cheer, and several marshmallows were lost to the campfire with their enthusiasm. They carried on chatting to one another, outlining activities they'd been assigned to for the next day, and plotting their time to strike the hot tub. Reggie, seated next to Twister, noticed he wasn't joining the others, and in fact, had scooted a little further from the fire after mention of the hot tub. He looked pale and troubled, and that, in turn, troubled Reggie.

"You okay, Twist?" she asked, out of hearing of the others.

"Yeah," Twister replied unconvincingly.

"That's a funny way to say 'no'," Reggie teased.

"Mm-hmm."

She nudged him lightly with her elbow. "Come on, what's bugging you?"

"It's nothing. I just... I think I'll pass on the hot tub thing."

"What? Why? You love that whole gym hall."

Twister rubbed the back of his neck. "Not anymore."

"What, you afraid Mr. Mercer is going to try to sign you up for more swim training?" Reggie chuckled.

She didn't expect his reaction at the mention of the camp counselor in charge of the campground gym hall. He went rigid, drawing his arms tightly around himself, and that pallid complexion in him worsened. He almost looked _afraid_... but she wasn't sure why.

"You can always say no," she said gently. "I'm sure he won't take offense."

"I'm gonna go to bed," Twister announced suddenly, standing up.

Reggie blinked, perplexed, and the others stopped mid-conversation, too, as Twister began making his way back to the cabins. He ignored Otto's call for him to return, and when he finally disappeared from view, they all traded looks.

"Was it something I said?" Sherry wondered.

"Reg, you were talking to him last – what's up with him?" Otto demanded.

"I'm not sure," Reggie murmured, still staring down the forest path where Twister had gone. "We were just talking about the hot tub. He said he didn't want to go."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Mr. Mercer _again?_"

"Yeah... but something's up with Twist," Reggie insisted. "He looked like he'd seen a ghost."

"I'd look like that, too, if I kept getting bugged to do extra laps," Sam muttered.

The light mood returned to the group, and they resumed their pleasant evening. Secretly, though, Reggie, Otto and Sam worried about their friend, and the boys planned a thorough interrogation when they returned to the cabin.

…

Dawn came, and the morning call drew semi-conscious teens out of their beds, to join each other in the breakfast hall. The group sat together, trays loaded with fresh, full meals, but today, there was a conspicuous absence at the table.

"Guys, where's Twister?" Reggie asked through a yawn.

"He said he wasn't hungry," Sam answered, stabbing two full sausages onto his fork. "I've heard tales of anomalies like that, but this one takes the cake."

"Dude, he looked sick," Otto added, with a frown. "And he wouldn't talk to us last night about the hot tub thing."

"That's one way to put it. He almost yelled at us when we mentioned Mr. Mercer."

The girls traded puzzled looks. "Maybe we should talk to Mr. Mercer," Sherry suggested. "Convince him that Twister doesn't want the extra training."

"Yeah, but you know how that guy is, girlfriend," Trish countered. "In one ear, and out the other. He's got his eye on making Twister his star student. I mean, I see where he's coming from – kid's a fish."

The phrasing was innocent enough, but for some reason, Reggie felt a stirring of deep unease at the mention of Mercer's obsession with Twister's skill in the water. Her mind wandered, toying with possibilities, and some fragment of memory played at the back of her mind; a warning of something unpleasant, though she couldn't pinpoint what.

It faded as soon as she tried to grasp it, and she was forced to dismiss it for now, focusing instead on waking up. But she resolved that she would find Twister today, and try to talk to him again, even if he ended up snapping at her.

…

Twister sniffled, and quickly wiped at his eyes with his palms, ducking his head away as he heard people chatting nearby. He was horrified by the prospect of getting caught crying like this, but no matter how hard he tried, the tears just wouldn't stop. He fought to control his breathing, praying that whoever was coming up the path hadn't heard his sobbing earlier.

He hated this. He hated the camp, and everything to do with it, for it served as a stark reminder of what happened each year; of what was unavoidable. He'd tried so many different ways to get out of these trips, including drastic measures like getting into serious trouble at home, but once it became clear that he disliked camp, his parents saw it fit to punish him by making him go.

He trembled, hugging his knees close to himself, as memories began to plague him. He'd only been here two days, but already, he'd been ordered to report to the gym hall. Two hours, he'd spent there, under Mercer's eager eye, and it was two hours of hell. There were still two whole weeks left of camp, and the man expected him to show up every day.

Reggie's words came back to him, and he almost fell into hysterical, broken laughter: _You can always say no_. She had no idea. None of them did.

The chattering voices drew nearer, and Twister got up and hid himself in the brush, not wanting to be disturbed. He stilled, listening, then felt a sharp spike of horrible fear in his gut, as he recognized one of the voices: Male. Older. Deeper. And that laugh – that awful, terrible, breathy laugh, that had been so close to his ear so many times now.

"Hey, there he is! Twister!"

Twister almost swore aloud, realizing far too late that he hadn't considered how obvious his blue tank top would be against a forest background. Trying to recover himself, he quickly climbed to his feet, fighting back every tremor in his body, and blinking away his tears.

It was no use. There were his friends, walking alongside Mr. Mercer, and when they came close, they saw his red-rimmed, bloodshot eyes, and the misery on his face.

"Twist?" Reggie asked, blinking in shock. "Are you okay?"

Twister turned away. "I'm fine." He shut his eyes, irritated at how choked-up he sounded.

Footsteps sounded behind him, crunching softly on the carpet of pine needles that the trees had laid out. A hand landed on his shoulder – both gentle and heavy – and he went very still, recognizing too well who held that touch.

"What's wrong, Maurice?" Mercer asked, in a kindly voice.

Though it was subtle, Twister felt Mercer's command in the touch, and he obeyed, turning to face the group. He glimpsed concern and sympathy in the faces of his friends, but dared not meet their eyes, and dared not look further up to acknowledge Mercer.

"You can talk to me about anything, fella," Mercer went on, reaching out to tilt Twister's chin up. "Remember what I said about crying?"

To the others, this might have been a reference of a heartfelt talk, between mentor and student. Twister only heard the cold reality – the warning, given over and over after each session: Don't cry about it unless I say so.

"I remember," Twister forced out. "I'm... I'm okay. Homesick."

"Jeez, Twist, it's only been a couple of days," Otto remarked, before he was silenced by at least three sharp elbows.

"Now, Otto," Mercer said, "Be nice to your friend. It's actually pretty common for kids to get homesick in the first few days. I'm sure once you settle in again, Maurice, everything will feel much better. In fact," he leaned in a little, his smile widening, "Why don't you come along with me? We can talk it over."

Twister wanted to scream. He wanted to turn and flee, and go in any direction, so long as it was away from this man. But the hand held him steady, and he feared the repercussions, should he fight Mercer. Resigned to his fate, he nodded shakily, and felt sick at the relief that crossed his friends' faces.

"Come on, guys," Trish prompted, shooing the group like they were a flock of hens. "Give the guy some peace. I wouldn't want a bunch of kooks gawking at me while I was upset."

This prompted both grumbling and laughter, but it produced the desired effect, and they turned from Twister, leaving him in the care of Mr. Mercer. Mercer waited, still holding that pleasant smile, and waving at them, before he bade Twister to turn again.

"Start walking," he whispered, wrapping his arm around the teen's shoulders. "And don't think this gets you out of our evening session."

Twister cried silently now, as Mercer led him along the path, towards the nearest secluded building: The boathouse.

…

"Sammy, _please_ hear me out," Reggie begged, checking over her shoulder to see that nobody was listening. "I know what I saw!"

"You sure you're not reading too much into it?" Sam asked doubtfully, still shocked. "That's a hell of an accusation, Reg."

"But don't tell me you didn't see it, too! Twist was _terrified_, Sammy. He looked the same way he did when I asked him about Mr. Mercer last night."

"That doesn't prove anything, though."

Reggie sighed in frustration. "That's exactly why I think we should follow them. If they're really just talking, I'll give you my share of marshmallows for the rest of the week."

Sam raised an eyebrow, then sighed in return. "Alright. But where did they go?"

"I saw them take the boathouse path. Come on!"

Reggie grabbed Sam's hand, dragging him along as she made her way back up the trail. She'd done the same only a few minutes earlier, breaking from the group, with the excuse that she wanted Sam's advice on some Zine article. Now, driven by an instinct that trouble was afoot, Reggie paid no heed to Sam's panting, bitter complaints about the pace.

Within fifteen minutes, they reached the tree line near the boathouse, both heaving and out of breath. Sam dragged from his inhaler, and gave Reggie a withering glare, for the dock was devoid of human presence.

"If they're not here-"

"Shh! Listen!"

Reggie clamped her hand over Sam's mouth, before she considered his asthma, and let go. But both were alert, because this lakeside paradise wasn't as still and peaceful as it usually was. Someone was crying out. It was a faint, almost muffled call, but the pain and angst in that sound was clear as crystal. More distressing than this, however, was the fact that there was a rhythm to it – a rhythm they knew came from only one type of activity.

That, and they recognized the voice.

"What in the-"

"Come on!" Reggie hissed. "Keep quiet!"

Sneaking, they approached the boathouse, for the sound originated from there. Their faces grew red, and they traded disbelieving glances when they reached the outer walls; there was another sound now. Grunting. Panting – a male. Deeper than the other voice.

Sam had to plant his hands over his mouth to stop himself from giving a shriek, and Reggie had gone wide-eyed, as reality set her into shock. Both of them slowly stood, peering in through the window.

They wished they hadn't looked.

Twister was being pinned to the floor by Mercer, and both of them had their pants down. Mercer used his body weight to keep his victim still, while he violently thrust his hips. He had both hands at Twister's head, one gripping the boy's hair tightly, while the other lay clamped over his mouth, to silence his cries. Tears poured down Twister's face, but he could do nothing but claw pathetically at his attacker's hands.

"Sam, go get help," Reggie whispered urgently. "Go get help _now!_"

Sam didn't need telling twice; he didn't want to see this anymore. Never wanted to see it in the first place. With all the haste he could muster, he began sprinting back the way they had come, moving faster than he'd ever moved on foot in his life. Reggie watched him go for a moment, then ducked down again, and began moving along the wall, seeking an entrance.

She tried to block out the terrible sounds as she crept along, but nothing would quite rid her mind of it. That was her _friend_ in there, suffering – being held down against his will, and raped by a man old enough to be his father. It made her want to run off into the woods and scream her tears out, but she also held a stronger reaction; a reaction that made her pick up an iron boat hook, as she came around the corner into the yawning entrance of the boathouse.

Somehow, seeing Mercer on top of Twister again made her blood boil all the more violently, and she kept her steps careful as she approached them. All protest and fear fled from her mind, and she knew only one thing now: Stop this madness. Save Twister.

She was so close she could have reached out and touched the both of them – which was half the point. Raising the boat hook back for a swing, she took one more step forward.

Her foot came down on a noisy deck board, and it creaked loudly.

Mercer startled, whipping his head around, and gave a shout as he began trying to push himself off of Twister. Reggie gave him no time; she swung the boat hook, as hard as she could, and nailed Mercer squarely in the side of the head with it. He went limp, and flopped to the ground, knocked out cold.

Twister scrambled out from beneath him in an instant, crawling away as fast as he could. Free of the man's hold, he was openly wailing and sobbing, and he made it to the wall before he stopped and turned, his feet kicking for purchase along the boards, while he pressed his back up against that wall.

Reggie dropped the boat hook, and rushed towards him. "Twister?!"

She stopped just short of him, as he looked back at her with eyes full of humiliation and stone-cold terror. He began trying to pull up his pants, turning his head away, but was so panicked, he couldn't get a grip. Slowly, Reggie closed that last distance between them, and – taking care that she kept her gaze forward, and not down – she helped him dress himself again. He flinched at the touch, and started hyperventilating, until he couldn't take it anymore, and impulsively began pushing her hands away.

"Twister, it's okay," Reggie whispered to him. "It's _okay_. Take deep breaths, alright? I sent Sammy for help. You're gonna be alright."

He didn't respond, and hid his face from her, behind one hand, while he kept the other wrapped around his knees. For a moment, she feared he was having a seizure, so badly was he shaking. She didn't know what to do; she wanted to reach and pull him into a hug, but considering what had happened to him, she didn't want to scare him or remind him of Mercer. So she waited, instead, offering gentle words of comfort.

His breathing only became more erratic and strained as time went on, until he began coughing. That quickly turned to retching, before he suddenly threw himself onto his side, and vomited weakly. He'd gone godawfully pale, and was in a cold sweat, and Reggie had had enough.

"Twister, _breathe_," she ordered, reaching to catch him, as he very nearly fell down into his own mess. "Breathe. Just breathe slowly. You're gonna make yourself a lot sicker if you don't."

It was no use. He was trapped in his torments, and though she had no way of confirming it, Reggie suddenly knew that this was a reaction to one too many hurts; one too many times that Mercer had trapped him and tortured him like this. The trauma had broken him this time, and he was succumbing to the stress.

She heard his breathing slow abruptly, and she quickly eased him away from the wall, alarmed by how limp he had suddenly gone. His next breath came out as a heavy, choking sigh, and she found herself lowering him to the ground quickly, as his full weight strained against her. She'd just managed to get him rolled onto his side before he passed out completely, going still, his eyes fluttering shut.

"Twister," she called, pressing her fingers to his pulse. "Twister, wake up!"

Again, she found no success, and her worry spiked, as she felt how erratic and fast Twister's heart was racing. Placing him in a recovery position, she waited, watching him carefully, and trying with prodding and calls to revive him.

She heard a pained groan from behind her.

Instantly, she was on her feet, and she rushed back to retrieve her boat hook, as she saw Mercer regaining consciousness. She held the hook out in front of her, alert and wary, and kept herself firmly between Twister and Mercer.

Mercer was an age in waking, and clearly bore a concussion from Reggie's attack. He didn't truly see her, at first... until Twister gave a pitiful, mewling bleat, also waking. Reggie stiffened, conflicted: Did she keep guard, or try to go to Twister?

"You," Mercer croaked from the floor, trying to sit up, and failing. "You!"

"Don't move!" Reggie snapped, brandishing the hook. "You stay right where you are."

"Stupid girl... you hit me. You _hit_ me!"

"You're damn right. And I'll hit you again if you so much as _look_ in his direction!"

Mercer blinked slowly, wiping at the blood on his face. Then, he squinted, and Reggie could see him trying to grasp the pieces of what had happened. He glimpsed Twister, as the boy clumsily tried to rise, and anger flashed behind his eyes.

"Maurice!" he growled. "You told, didn't you?! I'll kill you-"

"Shut up!" Reggie commanded, moving back for a swing. "Not another word."

"What are you gonna do, girlie?"

"Put a hole in your head, if you don't _stay quiet_."

"Reggie?"

This desperate, frightened cry made Reggie's heart ache, and she risked a glance back, to see that Twister had moved back to the wall, his gaze flickering between her and Mercer.

"It's okay, Twist," Reggie reassured him.

"It's not okay, Maurice!" Mercer spat. "You broke the rules. All you had to do was bend over and stay quiet. I was even gonna let you have a little bit of fun!"

Reggie swung above him with the boat hook – not to hit him, but to warn him. He fell silent again, glowering doubtfully at her, for he was already well aware that she had no qualms about striking him. They stayed locked like this for what felt like an eternity, the only sound coming from Twister's continuous crying.

Until another sound broke the deadlock.

"Reggie?! REG! Where are you?!"

Reggie gasped. "Sammy!" she called, at the top of her lungs. "We're in here! In the boathouse!"

Mercer turned white, realizing that Reggie wasn't alone. A stampede of footsteps sounded outside, growing louder as they moved from dirt to decking. A second later, Sam appeared around the corner, followed closely by four members of staff, then Otto, Sherry, and Trish. The whole party halted at the scene before them: Twister, curled up in a corner, Mercer on the ground with his head wound, and Reggie, looking far too much like a wild Amazon, guarding Twister.

The staff moved first. Two of the burliest guys – whom Reggie recognized as Mr. Jackson and Mr. Reeve, from the rock climbing course – went directly to Mercer. Mercer began to protest as they grabbed his arms, but they paid him no heed, marching him quickly out of the boathouse. The other pair, Ms. Thompson and Mr. Nedan, made their way to Reggie and Twister.

"Easy there, Reggie," Thompson said, holding up her hands.

Reggie blinked, then looked down, and saw she was still holding onto the hook as if her life depended on it. She lowered it quickly. "Sorry, Ms. Thompson. I... I couldn't let him get to Twister."

"I understand," Thompson took the hook from her, then beckoned.

Reggie glanced back to Twister, and saw Nedan crouching before the boy. Twister eyed Nedan with nothing short of dread, and Reggie gulped. "Don't touch him," she cautioned. "Please don't."

"I won't hurt him, Reggie," Nedan replied. "You hear that, Maurice? I'm not going to hurt you."

"Reggie?!" Twister called, his voice broken.

"It's okay, Twist! It's okay. It's Mr. Nedan – he's going to try to help you."

Thompson began pulling Reggie away, and she resisted a moment, wanting only to help Twister. Then, Otto was there, helping pull her along, though she hadn't realized she was fighting so hard. _Shock_, she thought dimly, as they moved out of the boathouse. _Must be shock_.

She found herself sitting outside in the grass, with Sherry and Trish on either side of her, lending her support, while Sam and Otto stood by, hovering like a pair of bodyguards. Thompson was asking questions, and Reggie answered as best as she could manage, her mind in a daze. The dominating thought in her head ran around and around again: Where was Twister? She had to protect Twister from Mercer.

"Mr. Mercer can't hurt him now," Thompson told her firmly, making Reggie realize she'd just voiced her fears aloud. "We've called the local ranger station. They're sending out some LEOs, and until then, Mercer's gonna be detained in a staff cabin."

"Where is he? Where's Twister?"

"Mr. Nedan's with him, remember, kiddo? He's trained to help teens in situations like this."

"You mean teens who get molested," Reggie said weakly; bluntly.

"Easy, Reg," Trish said, rubbing circles over her back.

"He's not okay! This whole time, he's been so scared, and we just thought he didn't want to do the training! God... _training_. We thought that _bastard_ just wanted to train him..." Reggie swallowed, feeling suddenly ill. "He was hurting him... he was hurting Twister."


	58. Chapter 57

They all knew Otto was getting cross – he'd reached the point of snapping out every other word he spoke – but none of them had really expected him to get so cross with Twister. In fact, they hadn't expected Twister to be so off his game today, and when he fell once again trying to grab the puck, they all stared, startled by his cry of pain.

Otto threw down his stick. "Twister. Can you _please _stop being lame for at least five minutes?!"

"I'm sorry," Twister mumbled, climbing to his feet.

Reggie, Trish and Sam all skated in, as Otto moved up in Twister's face. Twister didn't meet his eye, and would have fallen backwards trying to lean away, had Reggie not caught and steadied him.

"Easy," she cautioned. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," came the weak response.

"You're not 'fine!'" Otto growled. "You're playing like a shoobie!"

"Otto, lay off. He looks sick."

She was right: Twister seemed awfully peaky, and the way he held himself suggested he was in pain. His eyes showed it, too, coupling with a distant and distracted light that told them he wasn't one-hundred percent there.

"Why don't you go sit down for awhile?" Reggie prompted.

"We don't have time to sit around!" Otto stormed. "Every minute of practice counts."

Reggie scowled. "If you push him too hard, we're going to end up with a man down."

"I'm okay, Reg, really," Twister insisted. "I'm just... I'm just kinda tired."

"If that's 'kinda tired', I don't think I wanna know what 'exhausted' looks like," Trish said to Sam.

"If you're sure, Twist," Reggie said uncertainly. "But if you start to feel worse, promise me you'll take at least five minutes. Okay?"

"Okay."

Otto hooked up his stick and shoved by the both of them, chasing the puck as he went. Trish and Sam split to opposite goals, while Twister began trying to follow Otto. Reggie kept close by him, keeping an eye on him. Now that she really focused on him, she saw the way he seemed to almost limp in his blading. He moved with a great deal of fatigue, and had barely caught up to Otto before Otto swung around again, to begin racing to the other end of the court. Reggie braked to block him, then lost track of her brother altogether, as she saw Twister skate wide, his course suddenly erratic. He slammed into the goalpost a second later, next to a perplexed Sam.

"You okay, dude?" Sam asked, peering down at him.

Twister didn't reply; his eyes were shut tight, and he was hissing through his teeth in agony.

"Twister, where are you hurt?" Sam asked, lifting his mask off.

"Not hurt," Twister grunted, though he made no move to get up.

"Horseshit. You're in pain. Where?"

"Are you fucking kidding me, Twister?!" Otto screeched from across the court.

He was ignored, and Reggie and Trish made their way over, seeing that Twister had yet to get up. In the few moments it took for them to cross the distance, Sam noticed even more color leaving his friend's face, as Twister began taking slow, deep breaths. Alarmed, Sam tossed off his goalie mitts and kneeled.

"Hey," he called, "Don't pass out on me, buddy."

Twister swallowed and tried to open his eyes, revealing a hazy, distant look. Sam tried to keep his attention, but knew Twister was fading fast. Reggie and Trish pulled up, exchanging worried glances at the sight of him, and even Otto – grudgingly skating in – lost a little of his ire, sensing that the situation had gone downhill.

"Twister, _focus_," Sam called. "Keep breathing like that, you're doing great. Hey, no, come on," he reached out to squeeze Twister's shoulder, as his eyes closed again. "Stay with me."

Without warning, Twister suddenly jerked his head to the side, choking, and threw up. Sam and Reggie both grabbed him immediately, and turned him all the way over to his side. He was alarmingly limp in their holds, and in seconds, his breath gave out, as he fell unconscious.

"Alright, that's it," Trish muttered, speeding over to her kit bag. "I'm calling 911."

Otto ground to a halt, staring. "Did he just pass out?!"

"Yeah," Sam replied tersely, fixing his fingers to Twister's pulse. "Pass me one of my mitts."

Unnerved by Twister's stillness, Otto obliged, and after checking Twister hadn't struck his head at some point, Sam removed his helmet, and cushioned his head with the mitt. The trio hovered over him, waiting anxiously, while Trish reported symptoms through to the dispatcher on the phone. Twister stirred not long after Trish hung up, his body giving a light jerk, as he drew in a sharp breath.

"Easy, Twist," Reggie said, bracing him down with Sam, as Twister began trying to rise. "Don't get up yet, okay? We're waiting for an ambulance."

"Y-you called an ambulance?" Twister asked weakly, growing frightened. "No... no, no, please, I'm okay!" he fought his friends, again trying to rise, and Trish and Otto had to come in and help keep him down, as his struggles increased. "I can't go to a doctor!"

"Dude, chill!" Otto commanded. "You straight-up puked and passed the hell out. You need a doctor."

"I-I'm okay, I can play! I can play. I don't need it, please..."

They were all shocked to see the start of tears in his eyes. He was groggy and confused, but there was a desperately terrified lucidity in him, which spoke his pleas and scared them, in turn.

"Why don't you want to see a doctor?" Reggie asked gently.

Twister didn't meet her eye. "I can't."

"Twister, they're not going to hurt you. They're just gonna try to figure out what's wrong, and do what they can to help you get well. I know you don't feel good – wouldn't you like to feel better?"

"They're gonna take me," Twister whispered, shutting his eyes, as his tears fell freely. "They're gonna put me in a cage."

"He sounds delirious," Trish commented.

"Twister, breathe," Sam said. "It's gonna be okay, buddy."

"I messed up," Twister blurted, his voice choked. "I'm sorry. I messed up bad."

Otto grimaced. "Listen, bro, don't worry about the game-"

"Not the game. I fucked up, Ottoman. I'm lost. I did something really stupid."

They all bit back the automatic response that this was normal for him, because they could see something was upsetting him greatly.

"What did you do?" Sam prompted.

Twister swallowed, and kept his eyes firmly shut. "I-I... I might have... done some things to... to m-myself. I didn't mean to, I'm sorry, I-I just couldn't stop, I couldn't stop for so long, and when I did it was too late, I'm so sorry-"

"Hey, take it easy," Sam replied, as Twister's sobbing grew more hysterical. "It's okay. You're okay."

"I'm not okay!" Twister shouted, his voice uneven. "I'm not okay... I couldn't stop it."

"Couldn't stop what? What did you do, Twister?"

Twister didn't respond. Wailing sirens sounded out across the town, drawing rapidly nearer.

"Twister. It's okay. You can tell us. What happened?"

"I... I hurt myself," Twister said in a hoarse whisper. "I hurt myself, Sammy. I'm sorry."

The group went still.

Sam recovered first, closing his eyes for a moment, and taking a deep, calming breath, before he looked at Twister again. "You hurt yourself on purpose?"

"Y-yes. I'm sorry, Sammy, I'm so sorry..."

"Where did you hurt yourself, Twister?"

"M-my legs. A-and... and my shoulders."

"Cuts?"

Twister nodded. "Yeah," he said, with resignation. "They're gonna lock me up. The doctors."

"I don't think they will, Twist," Reggie broke in, her voice somewhat shaky. "I think they'll try to get you some professional help, like a therapist, but they won't commit you."

"Not unless they have a really good reason to," Sam added seriously. "Should they have a reason, Twister?"

"I don't wanna die, if that's what you mean."

"Okay. That's great to hear, you know. I'm glad you don't."

"Why the hell would you do that if you didn't wanna kill yourself?" Otto blurted, to face-palming all around.

Twister looked ashamed. "I dunno. I'm sorry."

"You cut yourself and you don't even know why?!"

"Otto, stop," Reggie warned.

"This is nuts," Otto turned away. "My best bro is insane."

"I'm not crazy," Twister protested. "I just wanted to feel better. I'm really sorry, Ottoman."

"You don't feel good?" Reggie asked.

Twister shook his head, but didn't elaborate.


	59. Chapter 58

"Otto? Can we go home?"

Otto felt like his eyes would roll out of his head. "Twister, _relax_ already! It's just a party, dude. Everything's gonna be fine. All you gotta do is get up there."

Twister eyed the stand apprehensively. "They really messed Eddie up..."

"Yeah, so? That's kind of the point! He's part of the fraternity now, because he didn't pussy out. Do you wanna join or not?"

Twister considered his options. Otto had long ago joined the fraternity, and had allegedly gone through an initiation similar to this. The only reason Twister had refused thus far was precisely because of his misgivings with such 'rituals' as these. Sure, it was supposed to be a rite of passage of some sort, but he'd never liked the idea. He'd had enough hazing through high school.

Still, he desperately wanted to join his best friend in this endeavor. His social life, beyond his bond with the Rocket gang, was nonexistent. It had taken him awhile to notice that, too: Reggie had Trish, Sherry and the volleyball team, as well as the journalism clubs; Otto had Trent and his crew, who were all among the top sportsmen in the university; Sam had Oliver and the rest of the nerd gang.

And Twister... Twister had them. Which became a problem the longer the others spent with their new groups. They were still comrades, but more and more, Twister found his friends were 'too busy' or were invited to parties for 'club members only'.

Maybe he could make friends in this fraternity, then, and finally break out of the long periods of silence in his empty dorm room.

"Okay," he conceded to Otto, with an anxious sigh, "But, dude... if it gets too bad, promise me you'll help me-"

"It's won't get bad," Otto dismissed, directing Twister towards the stand. "You'll do fine. Just don't chicken out or cry or anything."

"But-"

Otto cut him off again, this time with a hard shove that sent him staggering. He was caught by a pair of frat brothers, and few onlookers cheered. Eddie was among the onlookers, and though he clearly had a sore back, he seemed otherwise happy and unharmed. Encouraged, Twister cooperated, as the pair removed his shirt, before taking him by the arms and bringing him to kneel on the stand. His wrists were shackled into the cuffs placed on two posts, to either side of him.

Someone shrieked in his ear then, signifying the beginning of the 'ceremony'. Twister braced himself, having seen what Eddie had gone through, and moments later, a bucket of ice-cold water was emptied over him, to more raucous cheers. Twister gasped in shock, his breath stolen away by the water.

It was only the beginning. The whip came next – a sharp, biting crack, which sent jolts of agony throughout his body. He bit back a cry of pain, not wishing to appear weak before this gathering. He reassured himself with the knowledge that the initiation wasn't meant to last long; there would be one strike from every member of the fraternity, Otto included, and then all would be well.

Except, he realized, as the whip snarled across his back again, the frat brother hitting him hadn't traded places with anyone.

Another searing hit followed shortly after the uneasiness hit him, snapping across his shoulders. Was it supposed to hurt this much? He breathed, as best he could. That was the trick: Breathe in, hold. Breathe out. No problem. He managed with this method for awhile, but it was getting harder and harder to focus. Had that been the twenty-first or twenty-second strike?

He looked to the party for strength... and noticed that revelries had continued without him. That hadn't happened with Eddie. Everyone had all watched and cheered eagerly for Eddie, the whole way through. Nobody here was even paying much attention, except for Otto, who looked...

Bored.

The next strike seemed to hurt more, as Twister saw his friend's expression.

He tried to raise his head again, to meet Otto's eye, but he saw, too late, that one of the visiting sorority girls had distracted his best friend. Otto turned away from Twister, his interests already far away from the platform, and Twister stared after him, his heart racing. He forgot his breathing; forgot to focus his mind away from the pain. So when it came again, and blood splattered from the whip, he couldn't stop a short, agonized cry from escaping his lips.

"Did that hurt, Rodriguez?" the whip master chuckled behind him. "You know the rules."

He did, and it scared the living hell out of him. Any cries aloud would be answered with worse punishments. Since nobody had cried out this entire night, he had no idea what this would entail. More whipping? Another ice bucket?

He found out when the pain on his back multiplied a hundredfold. He drew a shuddering, choking gasp, his eyes going wide, while his body seized and spasmed. One of the frat brothers was pouring some liquid on him, while he strained uselessly at his bonds. After only a few seconds of this torment, a horrible scream tore from Twister's throat, as the smell of vinegar invaded his nostrils – and his open wounds.

A handful of cackles went up around him – the sort of token attention an audience gives to a band who plays nothing of particular interest. It was then, slumping and panting in agony, that Twister finally felt the real levels of the lack of care around him. Every moment of social exclusion since middle school hit his mind; every slight encounter where he was dismissed or ignored.

So many bored looks. How had he not noticed when Otto had started looking at him like that?

The whip came down again, and he knew the answer. Knew, and despaired. Knew that this was no longer a hazing ritual, and in fact probably hadn't ever been to begin with. He was _entertainment_, of a substandard quality, but necessary, as if he were no more than some cheap party decoration. Make the fool a spectacle – won't he be more interesting that way?!

Twister stopped trying to regain count of the strikes. He didn't care whether his body responded with groans and cries or not, and even the burn of the vinegar, poured every few minutes, was a dull nothing in the back of his numb awareness. In some tight little corner of his failing consciousness, he was aware that the continuous rivulets of liquid on his back weren't from the vinegar at all. And the whip was sounding a little less sharp; more like the slap of wet meat on a counter top now.

He had no idea when they released him. He just knew that he was suddenly on the floor, lying sprawled on his front, his nose bleeding from where he'd hit the base of the platform on the way down. The sound and light around him disoriented him, and he became lost in time and memory, unsure how or why he was here.

Then, hands came, lifting him up under the arms. He heard voices, and grumbles of irritation.

"Where do we put him, though?"

"In the tub or something. I don't know, dude. Just get him out of the way."

The hands carried casually, without consideration, as if moving an object instead of a person. His feet dragged along behind him, and that was all he could see, for a little while: Wood became carpet; carpet became white tile. And on each, a thin little crimson trail followed one of his dragging sneakers. Was he bleeding? He couldn't grasp why.

The world turned again. There were fragments and flashes, and sometimes he felt blank, and for an eternity, he rested in this empty place, tumbling over a confusing puzzle of nothing. When the eternity finally ended, he was cold – so goddamn cold. His hands and feet felt numb. The cold occupied every inch of his body, save his back.

_God_, his back. It burned! It burned so badly. After the silence of semi-awareness, the brutality of this pain was something altogether unholy.

It moved in tandem with memory, and was joined by internal pain, too, creating a nasty little tango. When he managed to still his agony long enough to open his eyes, he saw where the frat boys had tossed him: An empty bathtub, in the downstairs bathroom. The sliding shower door had been closed on him, and there was a window open, letting in freezing air.

He registered a sound nearby, and realized it was someone hurriedly entering the room. No... not someone. _Three_. Girls, urgently whispering.

"-believe you didn't tell us, Reg! This is amazing!"

"Shh! You can't tell _anybody_ about it, please. What if he finds out?"

"He should find out! You two would be so cute together. And it's not like he's a total stranger."

"But it's _Trent!_ He's Otto's best friend... it would be like dating Twister, back when they were closer."

"Ew. Please, let's not go there, girl. He's, like... less than nobody."

"Hey, watch it, Sherry. He's still _my_ friend."

"I'm just saying. He's so reclusive now. Does he even interact with anybody anymore?"

"Well... not really, no. It's not like it's his fault, though. He doesn't ask for people to ignore him, you know."

A snort. "Maybe if he had more than a flower pot's worth of social and intellectual IQ, people would like him more."

"Sherry! Lay off. Besides, I thought we came here to talk about Trent."

Twister shut his eyes, giving a shivering sigh. He'd been on the verge of calling for help, but now, he wasn't so sure he wanted Reggie, Trish and Sherry to witness his shame. He stopped listening to their chatter, falling back into a lull, where he wasn't quite sure if he was awake or not.

The next thing he knew, someone had yanked the door right open, startling him to consciousness again.

"Gotcha! You perving little... little... oh. It's _you_..."

Sherry trailed off, her voice partially confused, and partially disgusted. Twister opened his eyes, and stared up at her blearily, trying to blink away the strange haze in his vision. He watched the disgust and second-hand embarrassment override any shock that she might have held, and eventually, she clucked her tongue and turned away.

"Um, it's just Twister," she muttered to the others.

Reggie and Trish – having taken up defensive places, after hearing someone in the room with them – both startled with the news. A second later, Reggie shoved by Sherry, peering down into the tub. Twister didn't really see her; his eyes were already fluttering closed again, as his head dropped to the side.

Reggie froze in shock at the sight of him. He was utterly pale, and sickly, and lay in the tub like a discarded ragdoll. The sharp terror in her gut, however, came from the sheer amount of _blood_ he was covered in. She couldn't see his back – though she knew of the initiation this evening – but he was lying in a pool of congealing red, which had left a steady trickle down the drain at his feet.

"Twister?!" Reggie called, crouching and reaching for his pulse. "Oh, my god..."

"It's the stupid frat initiation," Sherry said dismissively. "I heard them say he failed. He cried too much, apparently."

Trish came up behind Reggie, and went bug-eyed at the sight of Twister. "I don't think he failed for lack of trying, girl," she told Sherry. "This is... man."

"Sherry, call 911," Reggie snapped, her voice tight.

"What?! _Why?!_"

"Because he's almost unconscious! He's lost a lot of blood... he needs medical attention, now!" she swallowed some of her fear, diverting her attention back to her friend. "Twister? Sweetie, it's... it's Reggie. Can you hear me?"

He responded with a weak, shivering hum, and little else. Trish, recovering from her initial alarm, took the initiative, sliding open the door all the way, before she stepped carefully into the tub, balancing around Twister's legs. Reggie got her idea, and both women carefully eased Twister up, ignoring the way his blood stained them wherever they touched him.

"You got him?" Trish said, as Reggie took a better grip under Twister's arms.

"Yeah. Ready?"

Trish nodded, taking the boy's legs, and together, they quickly lifted him out of the tub, setting him down on the floor the moment he was clear. While Trish climbed out and darted to the cupboard, Reggie rolled Twister onto his side, to keep him off of his injuries.

And what injuries they were. Twister's back was _covered_ in inflamed, weeping welts. Some ran deep, born as full scars, and every single one had underlying bruises. They were marks that had been placed by a hand that hadn't cared enough to be gentle, and the sight of them made Reggie feel sick to her stomach with dread.

"Ew!" Sherry blurted, staring, as she caught sight of the wounds. "What the hell?"

"Sherry, 911, right now, goddammit!" Reggie all but screamed, turning to cast a hellish glare on Sherry. "He could _die_ from these if you don't!"

Sobered by Reggie's untempered fury, and by the seriousness of this prospect, Sherry finally – reluctantly – drew her phone from her pocket, and dialed emergency services.

She kept on staring, even as she spoke to a dispatcher, while Trish returned with her arms filled with clean towels. Trish and Reggie began placing them under, over, and around Twister, trying to keep his body out of shock, and chase away some of the cold. He didn't respond at all to this, even when Reggie repeatedly tried to talk to him and keep him focused. It wasn't long before they realized he'd slipped into unconsciousness.

"I'm going to kill Otto," Reggie muttered, distressed, her fingers fixed to the pulse in Twister's neck. "He convinced Twist to do this..."

"Easy, Rocket Girl. I doubt he knew _this_ was gonna happen."

"But he's not here. And he doesn't care enough anymore to be here, either. He faked enough concern to tell Twist to come along, out of _pity_, and then left him behind. _Any_ idiot could have seen they were going too far – any idiot, except my moron brother."

"There's a whole party here who were right next to him the whole time. They could've stepped in at any time. So maybe... maybe they're all idiots. And maybe we are, too."

"Ambulance is on its way," Sherry reported nervously. "Um... I tried to convince them not to send cops, but they're sending cops anyway..."

"Good!" Reggie snapped. "I hope this entire stupid fraternity gets arrested. My asshole little brother included!"

She was breathing hard, and doing her absolute damnedest not to completely lose her shit. It was hard, especially as she watched Twister, and saw how still he was, and how he seemed to struggle for breath. His pulse was weak and erratic under her fingers, and she prayed the ambulance would arrive soon.

…

Reggie had been hoping the entire incident would knock some sense into people; make them see just how far they'd gone, and how wrong it all was. And maybe someone would actually _look_ at Twister, instead of constantly dismissing or ignoring him.

It only made things worse.

Nobody spoke to him now, and though he had the attention of a few people, it was hostile. The fraternity had been completely disbanded, once it was discovered that hazing had been going on, and naturally, those members who hadn't been charged and expelled saw Twister as the cause of the downfall.

Reggie and Sam sat with him today at the student lunch hall, mostly because he still needed help walking around, but also because they saw the predatory looks other people cast at him as he limped by. For his part, Twister was only half aware of it; he'd barely gotten cleared from the hospital the night before last, and was in no condition to do more than shuffle back and forth between the dorms and the hall.

He knew he was supposed to be eating, to keep his strength, but he merely picked at his plate, while he stared at a table of nothing, his eyes resigned, and full with exhaustion and pain. The hand that held his fork carried a tremor – one that came from his painkillers, in part, but also stemmed from his anxiety.

"Hey," Reggie called gently, breaking him out of his absence. "Try to eat something, okay?"

"Not really hungry," Twister mumbled back, not looking either of his friends in the eye.

"You're gonna get sick if you don't," Sam insisted. "Just a few bites."

Twister made no move to follow this suggestion. Eventually, he set his fork down altogether, and pushed his tray away from himself. At this moment, a small cluster of students, passing nearby, cast him hateful stares, and began commenting loudly between one another.

"He wasted the fraternity, so I guess now it's okay for him to waste food," sneered one.

"Well, what do you expect?" came the reply. "It's all he ever was: A waste. I mean, have you ever seen the guy actually _do_ anything, except mope around at his dorm?"

"Some people just shouldn't be at higher education. It's a miracle he even got here! Otto Rocket says he's a complete idiot. No wonder nobody fucking likes him."

Twister didn't outright react to them in a way that was noticeable to others, but Reggie and Sam saw, right away, that the dead state in his eyes worsened. He was very still, as if to move would end him, there and then. Going by his empty expression, it probably would.

"Don't listen to them," Reggie said firmly, as the group moved on, "They're scum, Twister."

He gave no response, and Reggie and Sam shared a worried look.

"Look, why don't we get a go-bag, and head back to the dorm?" Sam suggested.

When there was still lasting silence from Twister, he and Reggie began to rise, hoping it would encourage their friend to move with them. It did, but no matter how they tried to engage him, he simply kept his silence, and they knew that he had shut down internally. He was on autopilot now, protecting himself from pains both physical and emotional. _Twister's not here right now. Please leave a message after the beep, and he'll get back to you in 7 to 10 business centuries_.

The three of them left the hall with their food, and Reggie and Sam despaired for their friend, for everywhere he went, he was followed by more whispers, stares, and nasty comments. They walked on either side of him, both to help him when he grew fatigued from his still-healing wounds, and to protect him from 'accidental' jostles in the crowds.

When they made it back to the dorms, Twister didn't bother to stop walking. He made right for the door to his room, mercifully vacant of Otto's presence for now, and shut the door behind him, leaving Reggie and Sam staring at the other side.

"Goddammit," Sam sighed.

"I don't know what to do," Reggie huffed, throwing down her pack and sliding down against the wall, across from Twister's door. "Why are they such assholes to him?! I don't understand!"

"Keeping in mind that the only difference between here and high school is a few months," Sam reminded her, as he sat down next to her. "They're immature, Reg, that's all. But he'll be okay, eventually."

"Will he, though? He looked _dead_ inside, Sammy. He's gone from being ignored, to being bullied, and somehow, he's supposed to be okay?! It's not fair."

Sam sighed heavily. "No, it really isn't. I wish we could do something to get everyone to accept their wrongdoing, but reality dictates that they'll try to keep blaming him, until they find something else to pick at."

Reggie scowled. "This is Otto. This all Otto."

"Mm, I wouldn't say it's _all_ Otto... maybe three-quarters Otto-"

"No, that's true. The rest is Trent, convincing Otto to ditch Twister for him."

They both fell quiet. It wasn't something the gang talked about – the way Otto had been steadily pushing Twister further and further away. At first they had only figured it to be a sort of growing-up thing, with each of them becoming more independent, but when it became clear that Otto was the only one doing the pushing out, truth set in.

"I'm worried about him," Reggie continued, her voice low, as she stared at Twister's door. "And not just 'Let's talk to Tito about it for solutions' worried. I'm _really_ worried. He's not doing well. I'm scared he's going to crash and burn, and... and I'm scared we might have something to do with it, too."

Sam grimaced. "We can't always be there," he said halfheartedly. "He's still responsible for his own life, you know."

"I know that, but... did we leave him behind, too? That's what I'm really afraid of: That we could have done more for him, and just... didn't."


	60. Chapter 59

"Help me!"

There was only a chorus of hysterical laughter in reply. Twister lay curled up in the mud, yelping when a foot flew out and landed a savage kick into his middle. There had already been dozens of strikes like this, and he was trembling with hurt, beaten over every inch of his body, and soaked through with rain.

"No one's coming, Maurice," one of the boys sneered at him, hitting him again. "They're all off on their stupid little bike tour."

Someone grabbed him, moving him out of his protective ball, and forcing him to lay out on his front. His arms were pinned behind his back, and a heavy weight settled on him, before unkind hands gripped him by the hair. The pull made him cry out – exactly as this assailant planned, as Twister found his face being shoved down into the muck at that moment.

The laughter around him increased as his world went dark, and filth entered his mouth and nose. He struggled, unable to breathe, but was held fast like this, until his thrashing became much more desperate. When the pressure at the back of his head was finally released, he came up and spat up the mud weakly, retching and gasping for air.

"What's wrong, don't you like the taste?" the boy holding him asked. "Maybe it's an acquired thing. Have some more."

The procedure was repeated. His tears and blood blended with the murky ground, and he began to panic, sobbing as they rubbed his face back and forth into the mess. His cries were mocked, and more blows rained down between sessions of this cruel torment, until he was too weak to fight back.

At that point, he was moved again, the weight on his back lifting, while his wrists were brought over his head and held there. Someone pulled up his shirt forcefully, bundling it to the back of his neck, before his pants were tugged down in the opposite direction, and his legs pinned.

He howled in terror, a cry that only increased as a brutal, invasive, utterly humiliating feeling struck him. The boys broke into disgusted, entertained cries of their own, as one of their number forced his finger into his victim's backside. Twister retched on more mud, but could do nothing to stop the violation.

"Aw, he's not fighting! Bet it's cause he likes it, the freak."

"If he likes that, he's gonna love this."

The finger was withdrawn, but there was no relief, for it was replaced, less than a second later, but something far worse. A scream tore from Twister's throat, as two of the boys began slowly inserting the plastic handle of a broom into him. His scream caught, and he was frozen in agony and suffering, as they began moving the handle rhythmically. Blood trickled down from between his thighs, and such became the pain that he couldn't move; couldn't think.

Something snapped in him when he felt a hand reached down to massage his groin. He lost all semblance of willpower, and detached from reality, and though his body reacted to the unwelcome stirring of pleasure, he was absent from it. He didn't know how long he lay there, being groped and sodomized, but when he was forced to ejaculate, as orgasm struck him, it was as empty as everything else in his world.

There was more pain, as something tore across his back, and he realized, in the blinding hurt that followed, that he was being struck again – this time with more than just fists and feet. A belt came down, biting across his flesh, and leaving in its wake a brutal, bleeding red welt. Again and again, the belt came down, and when one innovative attacker got the idea to start lashing him across the buttocks, he threw up, feeling the broom that they had simply left inside him.

Consciousness shot away from him rapidly after this, and he fell still under the whipping. The last feeling to touch his mind was the cold weeping of blood from the new scars on his back, and the freezing rain that seeped into his bones.

His tormentors left him like that, bored now that they were deprived of their captive's screaming and squirming. He would wake eventually, they knew, but by then they would be long gone, safe and warm back in their cabins. They didn't fear retribution, for what would he tell his friends? That he'd been brutally tortured and humiliated? For that, they relied on his fear, and his shame, to cover them.

…

"Oh, fuck... oh, Jesus. It's... it's Twister Rodriguez."

"What?! I thought he was on that biking trip with the others."

"God, he's hurt. He's really hurt! Come quick."

Shuffling feet, crunching quickly over the forest floor, then squelching into the mud, greeted Twister's ears, following these curious voices. Slowly, he opened his eyes, his whole world a haze of drowsiness, cold, and pain. He couldn't make anything out – just shapes, blurry and moving too quickly, clustering into view.

He felt a hand at his neck, and he flinched, whimpering weakly, and drawn back to memory of his assault.

"Oh, god. Oh, god... he's been..."

"Christ, get it out of him!"

"I don't want to hurt him..."

"Well, we're not gonna just leave it in him like that!"

He didn't understand the horror in their voices, or the concern, and he couldn't quite get his mind to grasp who they were, stuck as he was in recalling the attackers. His grip on reality worsened when the pain from his backside flared anew, and the handle that had been left in him was finally, mercifully withdrawn. He gave a miserable, agonized moan, and new tears mingled with the mud on his face.

"Please," he slurred, "Don' hur... hur'me... please..."

"Shh. It's alright," came a gently reply, as that hand at his neck moved, and came to rest against the side of his face. "Don't move. Save your strength, Twister."

"You guys still got your ponchos?"

"Yeah?"

"Here, get him covered. He's freezing."

"Lars?" Twister called, puzzled by the familiarity of the voices. "Hel'me. Lars..."

"Shh, it's okay, sweetie. It's okay. Your brother's not here, but we're gonna get you some help. Just try to lie still."

Regardless of his fears, he was far too weak, and his eyes fluttered closed again. There was no strength left, and that same resignation that had sheltered him from the cruelest part of his torture returned. Where was Lars? That was the only part of him that cared. Somehow, through all of this, all he wanted was his older brother, and Lars was not here. Who were these people, then? Not the gang; not those voices.

He didn't get much time to wonder, before he was drifting again, too badly injured to keep his senses.

When he next came to, his mind was thrown for a disoriented loop. Gone was the mud clinging to his body, and gone was the rain, and the awful chill. Even the pain seemed dull and far away, and instead of damp and despair, he felt warmth. Soft, comfortable heat, in heavy layers, all over his body. His clothes were gone, save a pair of clean underwear, and he swore he could feel bandages on and around his injuries.

He didn't want to move, and didn't, letting the heat suck him back into a blissful, dreamless rest. A few times, he was stirred from his slumber, by movement around him, or by hushed whispers. Always, it was accompanied by gentle touches – such a stark contrast to the harsh, hateful holds of his attackers. Hands that caressed his hair back and put him at ease, sending him back into slumber.

One such touch brought him out of sleep, and he knew something was different this time, though he couldn't pinpoint how he knew this. Someone was sitting nearby, and the whispers were more urgent; businesslike. Some of the heat had been taken from his body, and he felt he was lying on his side, with his skin exposed to the air.

"Ray, he's awake," the voice near his head reported.

"Dammit... just keep him as relaxed as possible," came the reply. "It won't take long."

"Hey, Twister-cuz," the first person called.

Twister opened his eyes, fighting the heaviness in his body. There, above him, was a recognizable form, smiling down at him, and providing that welcome, soothing touch across his face.

"Tito?" he murmured, frowning at the hoarse rasp in his voice.

"That's right. It's good to see you back."

Twister tried to take in his surroundings, recalling the forest, and was confused to find wooden walls and a ceiling. He saw he was lying down on a bed, and there was a nightstand nearby, with all manner of medical things piled on it. He blinked, puzzled, before recognition dawned.

"The cabin?" he asked weakly.

"Yeah. You been here awhile. Had us scared for a bit, too – but you're gonna be okay."

Someone was moving around behind him, and Twister tried to look back, but Tito kept him still. He resisted only for a moment, though an uneasiness settled over him.

"What's happening?"

Tito looked sad, and grimaced. "Here, you take my hand, okay? Hold on tight. It's gonna be alright, Twister."

"I don't understand," Twister said, though he took Tito's hand, and held on, though he could hardly grip well.

"Okay, buddy," said the voice behind him, "This isn't gonna feel good, but it's to help you heal."

"Raymundo?"

"Keep looking at me," Tito told him firmly. "Breathe with me, now."

He demonstrated, and Twister followed, still unsure why. Tito's eyes moved upward briefly, and he nodded, presumably at Ray. Twister didn't quite understand why he did this... until he felt his underwear being pulled down. Total, blind panic seized him, and adrenaline shocked his body. He flinched violently away from the touch, ignoring the surges of pain that resulted from his sudden movement. Both Tito and Ray grabbed onto him, and easily restrained him.

"It's okay, Twister," Tito soothed, "It's okay. He's just gonna apply some medicine. It'll feel a lot better when he does."

"Lemme go!" Twister howled, terrified, his voice fracturing. "Tito?! Please, don't! Please!"

"I'm sorry, kiddo," Ray said. "I know you're scared, but we're here to help, okay?"

"I don't want to! Please..." Twister began to cry, shutting his eyes tight, as he kept fighting both men. "No..."

As much as they wanted to stop, neither Tito nor Ray made any move to do so. Ray finished pulling the boy's underwear down, and readied the medical cream the doctor had given them, to help Twister heal. Ray was a parent, and had dealt with every imaginable scenario raising two kids, but this was different. He'd never had to restrain an injured, confused teenager, and apply aid for an injury caused by such a horrific act of evil.

But he did it anyway, knowing that if he didn't, Twister could get sick from infection. He did it, and hated himself for it; would never be rid of the sounds of awful pain and despair that Twister gave. He was almost relieved when the boy fell silent, but Twister's ragged breathing and trembling told him all was not well. Ray had just finished applying the cream when Twister abruptly convulsed, and bile splashed up out of his mouth.

Alarmed, Ray looked up. "He okay?"

"He threw up," Tito reported, grabbing a towel from the nightstand, and setting it under Twister's head. "Easy, Twister. It's alright. It's over now."

Twister retched and choked through his sobbing, and flinched every time Tito wiped his mouth with the towel.


	61. Chapter 60

"Hey! Excuse me!"

Reggie abandoned her search for more salt shakers, alarm gripping her, as she finally realized she was no longer alone in the back storage of the Shore Shack. A young man, looking to be about her age, had wandered inside, and before she'd called to him, he'd been investigating the various contents of the shelves. He glanced up sharply at her call, startled, and Reggie's worry grew, as she saw that he was sporting a nasty black eye and a cut lip.

"This is private property," she informed him firmly. "You can't be here."

The boy gave her a puzzled look, as if he weren't sure of why he'd encountered her. "Help," he blurted.

Reggie blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Help," he repeated urgently. "Owie."

For a moment, Reggie had a mind to start yelling at him, fearful that he may be some kind of street addict. Something about his demeanor gave her pause, however, and she stilled the wary warnings in her mind, as she examined him more thoroughly. Her feet drew her a little closer, that she might get a better look at him, and she gasped, as she saw the rest of the marks on his body.

He was wearing a blue tank top, which exposed his bruised and cut shoulders and upper chest. His bare neck was much the same, but the marks were different, and obvious in their origin: Finger patterns. The shape of hands, that had been too-tightly wrapped around his throat. His arms were a mess, too, carrying more open injuries in random places, and Reggie thought she recognized cigarette burns.

His battered state was written in his eyes, too; he made no move to run from her, but she could tell he wanted to, and was desperately afraid of her. Not because he might get into trouble, no – but because of some deeper terror, born from experience of pain. He feared she would physically harm him, the way someone had so blatantly done to him before, and he seemed ready to cower.

"Help," he repeated in a whisper, flinching as she took another step towards him.

"You need help?" Reggie asked, unable to keep the sympathy out of her voice. She gestured to his wounds, provoking another flinch. "Those look like they hurt. Did someone attack you?"

He appeared confused by this query. "Owie."

The tone of his voice was almost childlike – innocent, and without much grasp of complex thought or form. Reggie reached another revelation, as she studied his guarded expression: He wasn't entirely master of his own mind. What seventeen-year-old said things like, 'owie', or spoke so softly and simply? He was different, that much was clear.

"It's okay," she reassured him, coming closer. "I won't hurt you. My name's Reggie. What's yours?"

"Twister," came the curious response.

"Your name's Twister? That's an odd name. Is it your nickname?"

"Twister. Owie."

"Okay, Twister," Reggie gave him a gentle smile, before beckoning. "Why don't you come sit down? I can try to look at your injuries and help you."

He eyed her with caution, and she kept her smile for him, offering him safety and security. After hesitation, he quickly came to accept that she wouldn't harm him, and he followed her over to a spare chair, his trust abrupt and absolute. With a pang of sorrow, she thought if she'd been someone with less integrity, she might easily have been able to take advantage of him, so vulnerable was he.

"There you go," she said, as he gingerly took a seat. "Does that feel better?"

He didn't reply, then cringed back, as a call came from the front of the restaurant. A whine of fear escaped him, and he held himself close, his eyes terrified and uncertain, as he watched the door to the front.

"It's okay, Twister. That's just my dad, Raymundo," Reggie told him. "He's calling me because I'm working. Will you be okay here for a few minutes? I want to get help from him, so we can make you feel better."

"Police?" Twister asked, trembling.

Reggie paused. "Do you want me to call the police?"

"Bad!" Twister bleated, shrinking in on himself. "Owie. Mean police," to Reggie's shock, he started to cry, but he also held out his arms, and pointed at the cigarette burns. "Police. Mean."

"You... you're saying _police_ did _that?_" Reggie said, her mouth falling open.

"Spic," Twister mumbled, pointing at himself. "Spic. Police Twister."

Interpreting his words was a little like deciphering hieroglyphs, Reggie thought, but she was good at extrapolating meaning; journalism often required it. It also required her to maintain an objective view over things, and not let herself get carried away with jumping to the wrong conclusions. So, she checked her reaction at this, recognizing far too well the meaning of the slur, 'spic'. The way Twister had said it suggested that he was repeating it from something he'd heard. And to pair it with police... she didn't like where this was going.

"Spic!" Twister repeated.

"Sweetie, please don't say that word," Reggie said. "It's really hateful."

"Police say."

Even having interpreted this result, it shook Reggie to hear it. "The police called you that?"

Twister nodded, but before he could give her more information – or perhaps just the same information – Ray called for his daughter again, this time with more anger in his voice. Twister shrank back in his seat, and his tears worsened.

"Sorry," he whimpered. "Twister sorry."

"Hey, no, it's okay," Reggie hushed. "My dad's really nice, I promise. He's just very busy. I'm gonna go get him, alright? And we won't call the police if you don't want it."

Since he gave no response, Reggie decided this would have to do, and she raced back into the kitchen. There were a decent amount of customers today, and Ray and Tito were clearly struggling with orders, especially without Reggie's help. She brushed this aside, and marched directly for her father.

"There you are!" Ray said, turning from taking an order. "I need bussing on the tables, Rocket Girl. Pronto!"

"Dad, I need you to come to the back," Reggie said firmly.

Ray blinked. "Why? Is the freezer out again?"

"No. There's someone back there. He's injured. He says he needs help, but-"

"_What?_ Why didn't you call me right away?"

"It's complicated. I just need your help. He's not... he's not entirely normal. He can't really speak well, and I think he might be mentally challenged or something."

Reggie cringed at the disturbed expression on her father's face, and regretted her choice of words. Ray looked ready to bring down hell on whoever was back there, but before he could, Tito – who had been listening to this – held up a hand to his friend, and looked intently at Reggie.

"This person," Tito said urgently, "Is he Latino? Short red hair? Did he give you his name?"

Reggie's eyes went wide. "Yes! He says his name is Twister."

"Twister," Tito repeated, turning a little pale. "Injured, you said?"

"Yes!"

Ray frowned. "You _know_ this guy, Tito?"

"He must have come looking for me," Tito murmured, reaching back to undo his apron strings, before passing off the apron to Ray. "I'll go, bruddah. And don't worry. The boy wouldn't hurt a fly."

Ray looked as if he might argue, but Tito gave him a glance, one that transferred a great deal of calm and reassurance. Ray relaxed a little, trusting his oldest friend and ally, though he remained wary. He turned to Reggie.

"You keep safe, young lady," he instructed.

"Yes, sir," Reggie replied. "Don't worry, dad. I think he's more afraid of us than you are of him."

In response, Ray grimaced, but Reggie didn't get time to process this. Tito was already making his way for the door, and she had to quicken pace to follow him. They both heard the sudden scraping of a chair in the storage room, as if its occupier had risen in a hurry, and stumbled.

Twister stood, facing them, his breath panicked and short. They both halted immediately, and Reggie kept back, watching as Tito slowly raised his hands, to placate Twister.

"Hey, Twister-cuz," he said softly. "It's me, Tito. You remember?"

Twister eyed the both of them uncertainly, limping back, until he was up against the wall. "Tito?"

"That's right," Tito encouraged. "I'm here to help. You did a good job, coming to me. Lars would be happy to hear it."

At the mention of Lars Rodriguez, Twister perked up hopefully. "Lars?" he queried.

"Yeah. He's not here right now, but I can call him for you soon – just as soon as we take a look at your injuries, okay?"

"Okay."

Twister sat down where he was, both out of compliance, and because it was clearly getting difficult for him to remain standing; the dark stain of blood on his pants indicated just as much. As soon as he was down, Tito diverted to grab the medical kit off the wall, then carefully approached Twister, with Reggie trailing behind.

"Why _Lars_, of all people?" she asked Tito quietly.

"Lars is his older brother," Tito said simply.

Reggie stared. "He's Lars' brother?" she repeated. "But... I thought Lars lived alone! That he was an only child-"

"I'll explain everything later, Reggie," Tito interrupted, as he crouched by Twister, and opened the first aid kit. "For right now, I need you to give me a hand."

Shaking herself out of her shock, Reggie came to Twister's other side, also crouching. He watched both of them tiredly, but always maintaining that naive curiosity about them, even through his fear and suffering. He pointed at the medical gloves Tito was applying.

"That?" he asked.

"These are for safety," Tito explained, passing a pair to Reggie. "So we don't get sick."

"That?" Twister pointed to the suture kit.

"A sewing kit for injuries. It hurts, but it also makes you feel better later. Can you try to take your shirt off, please, little cuz?"

Twister complied, moving somewhat rigidly. He gave a cry of pain as he raised his arms, and Tito and Reggie had to help him out of the shirt. As they exposed his chest, the both of them had to take a moment to collect themselves, to avoid scaring Twister with their own fears.

His chest matched the state of his arms and shoulders, but the injuries were doubled. It was no wonder he moved so stiffly, for every inch of his skin was a mosaic of bruises. There was something else, too – marker pen, written haphazardly over large, open cuts and welts. More racial slurs, with disgusting insults. He hadn't just been beaten; he'd been tortured and humiliated.

"Oh, Twister," Tito breathed, his expression twisting in anguish. "Little cuz..."

Twister picked up on Tito's sorrow, and looked down, ashamed. "Twister sorry."

"No, no, you don't have to be sorry, bruddah. This isn't your fault."

"Tito sad."

"Yeah, I am sad. But I'm sad _for_ you, not because of you. I'm sad that this happened to you. Do you understand?"

Twister nodded, though Reggie was certain he didn't. His shame, paired with this abuse, broke her heart to see, and she grew angry.

"He said the police did this to him," she told Tito quietly.

Tito looked sharply at her. "What?!"

"Police," Twister mumbled. "Mean."

"Oh, no, no, no," Tito shook his head to himself. "No, not again..."

"What do you mean, again?" Reggie asked, horrified. "They've hurt him before?!"

Tito didn't reply. He began examining Twister's wounds intently, unsure where to even begin with treating him. He gave a heavy sigh, and reached for alcohol swabs from the kit, before he gently began trying to clean some of the ugliest gashes.

Twister whined and shied from the burn. "Owie!"

"I know. But these are for cleaning," Tito showed him the package, "See? It's so you don't get sick. It'll only hurt for a little bit."

Reluctantly, Twister let Tito come back with the swabs. He squirmed every step of the way, and started up crying again. Reggie tried to help, but he was less sure of her, and eventually, she took up an idea. Recalling the boy's curiosity, she began showing him stuff – any stuff, just around the room, bringing it to his attention. It worked; he focused less on the pain, and more on Reggie's patient descriptions of items in the medical kit, or of a small model ship, or surfboard wax, or a packet of seeds with the label 'King's Cabbages'. She couldn't help but smile at Twister's childish reactions, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw Tito smile, too.

They were there for a long half-hour, coaxing Twister to be still, while Tito cleaned and bandaged the boy. Reggie took off a couple of times to report to Ray, and to generally make sure he hadn't panicked and phoned the police. Mercifully, Ray hadn't done any such thing, still trusting Tito's judgment on the matter.

When Reggie returned from one such update, she was startled to see That Twister was lying down on a camping roll that Tito had laid out for him. His body was swathed in bandages now, and Tito was in the process of trying to remove Twister's pants. The boy looked scared by this, and Reggie quickened pace over to him, crouching down.

Tito cringed. "Sorry, little cuz. I gotta get at his leg injury. I thought you would be longer, so if you wanna step out...?"

Reggie raised an eyebrow. "I'm almost an adult now, Tito. And it's not like he's going to be naked."

Tito cast her a wry smile, and finished undressing Twister. Twister bleated in pain, as his pants pulled a little at his wound, but otherwise lay quite still. He was tired, Reggie realized, and no wonder, after all this. Thinking, she backtracked through the Shack, racing up to Tito's pad upstairs, and returning with a camping blanket and an old pillow she'd found there.

"I hope these aren't part of some set of sacred Hawaiian bedding or something."

With a chuckle, Tito said, "No, pretty sure I removed the curse from them."

Gently, Reggie helped Twister sit up a little, to lay the pillow beneath his head, before she unfurled the blanket over his upper body, and tucked it around him. He bore this quietly, his eyes already heavy with exhaustion.

"There," she whispered to him. "Much better."

"Soft," Twister agreed.

"Why don't you close your eyes for a little bit? Tito's gonna fix your leg, and then you can take a nap."

"Okay."

"Need you to do one more thing while I'm working, little cuz," Tito said to Reggie, "There should be a page under the phone outside with some numbers. Call Lars, and tell him Twister is here."

"Call Lars," Reggie repeated, bemused. "Never thought I'd see the day that would happen."

"He might act like a coconut-head most of the time, but he loves his little bro," Tito replied. "He knows enough to put aside his rivalries for this."

"I'm on it, Tito."

The initial call was as awkward and strange as Reggie expected. At first, Lars almost hung up – before Reggie quickly mentioned Twister by name. There was a pause from Lars' end. Then:

"Who told you about him?" Lars demanded quietly.

"He's _here_, Lars," Reggie said. "At the Shore Shack. He... he's been injured."

"Injured?! How?"

Reggie swallowed, nervous about explaining. "He showed up at the back door, probably looking for Tito. He's been beaten. He's okay," she added quickly, hearing Lars curse in Spanish, "Tito's with him right now. We got him bandaged up, but you might want to come for him."

There was a deep sigh on the other end, and another silence followed.

"Okay. Alright. Look, I, uh," Lars began, "I'd... _appreciate_ it if you didn't tell anybody about this," he forced out. "Twister has enough trouble without people trying to get to me by hurting him. If you do _anything_ to hurt him-"

"You know I wouldn't. I'm not your stupid friends," Reggie snapped. "Just get out here. He needs you."

There was no polite exchange of goodbyes; Lars simply hung up, and Reggie knew he would be booking it over as fast as he could. All things considered, the call had gone well; she hadn't even had to drop the bomb about the police being involved.

…

Ray had seen off the customer rush by now, and closed off the Shack, so when Lars Rodriguez pulled up in his car, things were quieter. Reggie was waiting for him, at the back door, watching him exit the vehicle, her arms folded.

"Where is he?" Lars demanded, rushing.


	62. Chapter 61

"Why do you hang out with that guy?"

Otto, Sam and Reggie blinked at the newcomer's query, confused. Thomas had stated it out of the blue, interrupting a conversation, but he didn't appear to notice their confusion. He was staring a little ways across the field, an annoyed frown on his face. They traced his gaze, and were surprised to see it was Twister he was staring at.

"Twist?" Reggie said, surprised. "He's our friend. We've been friends since forever."

"Okay, but _why?_" Thomas asked, in serious earnest. "He's only average at most of the sports you guys do. He's a dick to people he doesn't already know. And he... well, not to be rude, but... he's not all that bright, either."

"He's a great videographer," Sam countered, "And he can be extremely creative, when he gets on the right track. You should have seen him that time he came up with a few plays for the hockey team. His strategies were unique – _and_ effective."

"You shouldn't let his prickly side put you off, either," Reggie added, amused. "He's secretly a complete marshmallow inside. It just takes him awhile to warm up to people. Sammy here can tell you that much."

Sam chuckled. "Yeah, he kept getting in my face when I first moved here. Turns out, he was just afraid he'd get left behind and replaced. When it really comes down to it... I wouldn't have him be any other way. His loyalty is kind of an earned thing, y'know?"

"It barely seems worth the cost," said Thomas, sighing. "Anyone can hold a camera, and creativity is still relative. I just don't see why anybody should put up with his bad behavior, no matter what's inside."

"Twist has always been worth it," Otto snapped, bothered by this line of questioning. "He's my bro."

"He stokes your ego, you mean."

"No! Well, yes, but there's more to it than that, man."

"Is there anything there that you can think of, that truly makes him your friend?"

"Dude. You're new around here, so I'll try to forgive you, just this once... but you don't know him at all."

"That doesn't answer my question, though. Can't you think of a good reason? I mean this sincerely, I'm just curious. Doesn't it worry you that you might only still be friends because you pity him?"

"Pity? Twister?" Reggie repeated skeptically.

Thomas nodded. "I don't ever see him hanging out with anyone except you guys. Everyone else sort of ignores him, or laughs at him, because he really isn't that smart, is he?"

"Maybe not," Reggie was catching Otto's mood now, "But we don't just keep him around as some kind of token trophy! He's part of this crew, and I don't know what we'd do without him... he's saved our asses more times than I can count, including a literal life-and-death situation. And his value to us is more than just the sum of what he can or can't do. At the end of it all, he has a _good heart_. I hope you understand."

Thomas sighed; this wasn't going exactly how he'd planned. He wanted Twister cut out of the group, but he hadn't quite anticipated how attached they all were to him, and vice versa. Perhaps it was time to switch tactics.

"He doesn't seem to say the same of you guys," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?" Otto said.

"I mean, he doesn't exactly seem to show you guys the appreciation you deserve. I'm just trying to warn you, you know – he might not be all you're painting him out to be. And I just want to help you see that-"

"Stop," Sam said suddenly, his expression turning hostile.

Thomas mustered an innocent look. "I'm sorry. I was just concerned-"

"No, you weren't," Sam looked to the siblings. "Josh 2.0."

Thomas had no idea what this meant, but it was clearly some kind of code or reference, because it immediately turned both Reggie and Otto hostile, as well. They stared him down, together, and he knew that he'd failed to convert them. He dropped all premise, and scowled back.

"Fine!" he grumbled. "Waste your time with the dumbass," he smirked to himself then, like he'd remembered some private joke.

He stood up, diverting his attention to Twister again. The boy had been distracted by a butterfly, and was watching it with that vacant, completely clueless expression that Thomas had come to hate so much. He began to make his way over to Twister, intent on taking out his anger on him.

A hand landed on his shoulder, halting him in place.

He turned, and there was Otto, looking downright _dangerous_. "Don't even _think_ about it, you kook. You leave him the hell alone."

Thomas yanked himself free of the hold. "Don't tell me what to do."

"If you hurt him, in any way, we'll be there. You'll regret it for the rest of your life."

Next to Otto, Reggie and Sam nodded, folding their arms in defiance, and giving the perfect picture of a united front. Thomas bared his teeth at them, then resigned the battle, taking off in the opposite direction – well away from Twister. He waited until he was well clear of them before smiling to himself.

The trio watched him leave, just to be certain he wouldn't try to sneak around and attack Twister from some other angle. When they were sure he was gone, and unspoken agreement passed between them, and they made their way over to join their friend.

Twister had lost track of the butterfly, his limited attention span now directing him to play with his phone. He was grinning at something on the screen, and it warmed their hearts to see that innocent, naive, completely _genuine_ smile.

"Hey, Twister!" Otto called to him.

Twister blinked, startled, then resumed his beaming, as he spotted his friends. "Hey guys! I found a cat!"

He shoved his phone at them, and they all traded looks.

"Twist, that's a lemur," Sam pointed out tiredly.

"Dude, I don't care what kind of cat it is."

Otto snickered as Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, but Reggie had more important matters on her mind.

"Hey, Twist – you remember that new guy, right? Thomas?" she asked.

Twister's reaction wasn't what they expected. His eyes gained a worried look, smile dropping away in a heartbeat, and he pocketed his phone, suddenly shy. "Are you guys mad at me again?"

"Why would we be mad?" Reggie said, puzzled.

"'Cause he said you guys were. I'm really sorry... I dunno what about, but I am!"

"That's actually what we wanted to talk to you about, buddy," Sam said, catching on. "Thomas is Josh 2.0."

"Josh CLONED himself?!"

"No, dude. It just means he's a lot like Josh. You remember how Josh tried to manipulate you guys into cutting me out of the group? Thomas is trying to do that to you."

"But... I don't wanna leave the group," Twister said sadly.

"And we don't want you to leave," Otto replied firmly. "You're our friend, Twist. Thomas is just a dick."

"Yeah!" Twister agreed, vehement only because Otto was. "He did sound kinda mean. And he wouldn't let me go until I said I'd stay away from you guys..." he paused. "I kinda forgot til now."

They stared at him. "Let you go?" Reggie repeated.

Twister, realizing what he'd just said, went wide-eyed. "Oh... uh-oh."

"Twister, did Thomas threaten you?"

"N-no..."

"Twister."

"Okay! He kinda did. I promised I wouldn't tell. I guess I forgot that, too."

Reggie narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "What else did he say? Did he hurt you?"

In the way he always did when he was trying to hide something, Twister began trying too hard to make it look like nothing was wrong, and in doing so, pointed them directly to the problem. He gripped the hem of his tank top tightly, blushing, before he decided this wasn't good enough, and wrapped his arms around his middle protectively.

"He didn't do anything," he stated lamely.

Reggie was having none of it. She came right up to him, a no-nonsense look fixed on her face. Twister gulped, leaning back from her.

"Show us. Now."

"But-"

"Twister. _Now_."

Heaving a defeated sigh, Twister let his arms drop, and reluctantly lifted his shirt. He seemed utterly ashamed as he did this, and his friends watched with a sick anticipation.

They weren't prepared for the sight. They thoughts, perhaps, that he'd be carrying a few bruises from a whomping – a bad enough prospect in itself – but when Twister exposed his chest and abdomen, they all gasped aloud, horrified and mournful for their friend.

Thomas had not been kind to him. There were bruises, alright – _massive_ things, all over him, discoloring his skin in ugly patterns. They weren't the only mark on him, however. It was the other damage that made Otto clench his fists and teeth, while Reggie and Sam looked sorrowful and disturbed.

On Twister's stomach, carved deeply into his skin in capital letters, was the word, 'DUMBASS'.

Twister swallowed, unable to look at them. "I'm sorry," he mumbled.

"Sorry?!" Otto snarled. "No, dude! You don't have to be sorry for this. This is... this..." he trailed off, eyes wide. "I'm gonna kill that fuck. I'm gonna flat-out murder his ass for this."

"Otto, enough," Reggie said quietly, trying to fight the tremble in her hands, as she reached out and lowered Twister's shirt gently. "Twister, when did this happen?"

"Um... yesterday, I think?"

"And you didn't tell us about this?"

"He told me not to. He said he'd rape me if I did. I dunno what that means, but it really hurt when he cut me."

Reggie stared, turning pale. "He threatened to _rape_ you?!"

"Yeah... is that bad? He didn't tell me what it meant. Would it hurt?"

Reggie chose not to answer his question, sharing a dark look with the others. After a moment, she abruptly took Twister's hand, pulling him along, while Sam and Otto followed.

"Where are we going, Reg?" Twister asked curiously.

"We're going to take you to the nurse... and then we're going to talk to the principal."

Twister resisted a little. "Am I in trouble? I'm really sorry."

"No! No, Twister, you're not in trouble, I promise. It's just... what Thomas did and said to you is _really_ not okay."

"Oh... Reg, I'm... I'm kinda scared."

"Don't be afraid," Sam reassured him, with a sad smile. "We got your back, okay?"

"Okay..."

Twister stopped resisting, letting his friends guide him through the halls, though he remained apprehensive. None of them spoke as they rushed along; Twister was distracted by his anxiety, and Sam, Otto and Reggie were still reeling with the discovery they'd made – not to mention the implications of Thomas's threat.

…

The nurse took one look at Twister's injuries, and practically threw him onto the bed.

"Shirt off," she commanded.

Twister looked uncomfortable. "It's nothing-"

"Either take it off, or I'll cut it off. Your choice, young man."

Twister chose the former, and his friends winced sympathetically, as they lay eyes on his wounds once more. The nurse wasted little time on shock; she began prying around Twister's stomach, ignoring the way he squirmed and bleated.

"It hurts when I press here?" she demanded, applying her fingers to one of the nastier bruises on his side.

Twister's response was instantaneous. He gave a pained cry, flexing back away from the touch, and even after the nurse withdrew her hand, he was still leaning over, breathing hard, his face pale and sweaty. He looked almost nauseous for a moment, too, and the nurse noticed this at once.

"Have you been urinating normally?" she demanded.

Twister wasn't the only one embarrassed by the question, as Otto coughed uncomfortably, and Reggie appeared as if she'd heard too much.

"Um... my pee was red yesterday," Twister mumbled.

"And have you felt any dizziness at all?"

"I... I don't think so? I felt kinda funny last night. My room wouldn't stay still. Is that normal?"

"That's a yes," the nurse remarked to herself. "Stay there one moment. We're going to take your temperature, and see what else your body has to say about all this."

"Is he gonna be okay?" Sam blurted worriedly.

The nurse cast him a sympathetic smile. "That's what I'm here to find out. But if I know you four, you're all very healthy and strong overall, and that's a definite bonus."


	63. Chapter 62

Waking was incredibly difficult, and Twister's whole body felt heavy and relaxed. His senses returned slowly, his thoughts puddling, while he tried to remember how he had gone to sleep in the first place. There was something soft surrounding him, but he knew it wasn't his cot; this was far more comfortable, with smooth sheets, and a duvet that swathed his body in delightful warmth.

Then he remembered his pain, and the comfort faded fast. His arms and legs always hurt, and he was used to this. But there were more injuries, he felt; a dull ache in the middle of his chest, and a throbbing in his head that steadily grew worse with each heartbeat. His mouth felt dry, too, and there was the familiar ache of hunger in his gut.

He heard someone moving nearby.

His eyes shot open, and he regretted it, because it caused his headache to increase, and because his eyes were stabbed by light that they weren't used to. Still, he kept them open, his breathing and pulse rising sharply in panic. If his dad was there, and he was caught sleeping, there would be hell to pay.

But this wasn't his room, he saw, and his dad wasn't leaning in over him. There was no cursing or sour stench of alcohol, or the disgusting noise of some customer pleasuring himself over Twister's body. The area around him was cleaner – brighter, somehow – and the only other person there was a woman, who frowned down at him.

It scared him. He didn't know who she was, or why he was here, and he tried to will himself to move, only to find his muscles simply wouldn't obey. Against his wishes, incipient tears flowed from his eyes, and he stared at this stranger, terrified. Was this some new 'service' his father had put him into? He'd been forced to sleep with women sometimes, and they were always more insidious and cruel than the men.

"It's okay," the woman soothed, her brow creasing with concern, as she realized his fear. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"Wh-who are you?" Twister asked, his voice no more than a hoarse whisper.

"My name is Noelani Rocket. Are you alright?"

Twister eyed her warily, as she sat down on a chair near the bed – a position she'd clearly been occupying for awhile, for there was a book laid next to it, and an empty mug near that. "What is this place?"

"This is my home. I found you outside," Noelani explained gently. "You were unconscious."

"Outside?"

"That's right. In the back yard. May I ask what happened?"

Twister wasn't too sure himself. "I-I think I hit my head," he mumbled, fighting to recall. "I... I don't know."

Noelani grimaced. "The doctor said you might have gotten a concussion-"

"Doctor?" Twister repeated fearfully.

"Yeah. I called one for you, when you wouldn't wake up. He treated your injuries..." she trailed off, her eyes traveling down, and growing sad.

Twister followed her gaze, and realized his arms were outside the covers. He startled as he saw broad wrappings, covering each limb, from wrist to shoulder. Some of the cloth was stained red, where he'd bled through, but this wasn't what disturbed him. Any doctor who examined him would know what his injuries were from, and probably would have told Noelani this information, too.

He swallowed. "C-can I go home?"

"Of course. I couldn't find any contact information on you. Would you like to call your parents?"

"N-no... please, I'll just walk home. Where are we?"

Noelani stared. "Honey, you _cannot_ walk like this," she told him firmly. "You need to rest."

Twister's fear worsened. "Please, I don't... I won't tell him," he blurted, desperately hoping for an exit; it was clear to him now that this was some kind of trap. "Just let me go. I promise, I won't say anything."

She looked puzzled, as if she didn't know what he was talking about. It was a deception he knew, and he began trying to sit up, scooting away from her, praying she wouldn't strike him.

He regretted his movement almost immediately, gasping as burning pain seared all over his body. His chest was the worst, and he fell back, crying out. He had to shut his eyes and breathe for a few moments, unable to do anything else. He heard Noelani move, and sensed her standing over him.

"Lie still," she instructed. "You can't move like that again, okay? You're hurt badly. I know you're frightened, but I promise, you're safe here."

Twister opened his eyes again, and went very still, seeing her reaching for him. She had been about to stroke back his hair, to comfort him, but when she saw the mistrust in his eyes, and the stiffness in his body, she drew back her hand, a warning going off in the back of her mind.

"What's your name, sweetie?" she asked softly.

"I'm not supposed to say," Twister whispered back. "You're supposed to call me whatever you want. That's how it works."

Noelani was disturbed by this. "How what works?"

Twister studied her expression, in awe at the level of deception this woman was trying to maintain. What was this? Some kind of test? Maybe his dad was nearby, watching; hoping for him to slip up, as an excuse and precursor to punishment. He struggled to withdraw his reactions, though the tears didn't seem to want to stop.

"I'm sorry," he said sullenly. "You're allowed to do what you want, for as long as you paid for. I-I've done lots of stuff... what did you want to try?"

"Try? I'm... I'm not sure what you're talking about," Noelani said carefully, though her eyes were wide.

Twister frowned. If this was a test, he sure as hell didn't know how he was supposed to respond to that. "You're here to use me. For sex."

Noelani gasped, horrified. "No! _God_, no. Is that... oh, your concussion must be awful," she rationalized, searching his eyes for signs of odd dilation. "Nobody is going to do anything like that to you, okay? What gives you that idea?"

"You paid for me," Twister insisted, before pausing, "Didn't you?"

"No, honey. Like I said, I found you outside. Has... has something like this happened to you before?"

"I'm not supposed to go to customers," Twister mumbled. "He must have had a new idea."

"To customers," Noelani repeated weakly, stepping back, and sinking into her chair. "People who paid to... to have sex with you?"

Too late, Twister came to the understanding that this woman really _didn't_ know what was going on... and that meant that he'd just blabbed. It was the first and most important rule in his father's book: Don't tell anyone about it. If Twister told, Raoul threatened, he would be killed. And Twister knew this was no scare tactic; he'd seen Raoul kill someone before.

He didn't answer Noelani's question, but he was quaking with fear. A million jumbled thoughts flew through his head. Maybe he could convince her he was making it up. He could play off his concussion – hadn't she mentioned he had one? Maybe she'd think him delirious.

"I understand if you don't want to talk about it," Noelani said, after the silence went on too long, "But I need to know if someone has been hurting you like that."

"I'm not in trouble," Twister denied. "I-it's fake. I lied."

Noelani grimaced. "I don't think that's true."

"Please, can I just go home?"

Sighing wearily, Noelani opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off, as a soft knock came from outside the bedroom door. She rose quickly from her seat, and Twister flinched. His former conclusion, that this was a test, returned strongly to the forefront of his mind, and he watched Noelani open the door in sick anticipation.

There was a man on the other side, and Twister felt his chest seize, his breath leaving his body, while an instinctive surge of nausea overtook him. There were two?! Two was _never_ good. The only time Raoul allowed two or more customers was for a very particular crowd of fetishists. Every time those people came to use him, it always ended it utter degradation and humiliation, and often, it would leave him ill for days afterward.

"Come in, but move slowly," Noelani was whispering to the man.

"Is he awake?"

"He's awake, but he's scared to death, Ray. I'm worried he's a victim of abuse."

"What?! I thought the doc said his cuts were self-inflicted?"

"It's worse than that. I think... from what he said, it sounds like he's been sexually abused. He mentioned customers... he... he asked me if I had paid for sex with him."

"Jesus Christ."

"Maybe you can talk to him, but be careful, Ray. He doesn't trust us right now, and I don't blame him."

Twister listened to the exchange without comprehension. He didn't understand this level of deception – what was the point of it all? Was it part of some specific kink of theirs, to trick him like this? He wished they would just get it over with; use him and leave him. But he knew with pairs, it was never that simple.

A flashback struck him then, unexpectedly: Of the last couple who had used him. The man was fucking him, while he lay on his back, restrained. The woman laughed her squealing, cackling laugh, while she raked her fingernails over his chest, drawing repulsed shivers from him. She leaned down to whisper in his ear, of all the filth she would put him through.

He remembered each, with agonizing clarity: A blindfold. A gag. Hands, holding him down, while vile things were put into his mouth. The way they kept fucking, casually, through each and every torture, until his ass bled. The shocks and all the bites of a whip, and the sharp pains in his groin where he was burned. The memory of that night blurred together into one, and came down upon him with all its wrath.

Then, they were gone – the room changed, and he was back in the new, unknown space. He'd somehow fallen from the bed, and was pressing himself into the nearby wall. Noelani and the man called Ray were across the other side, calling to him, both looking worried and mournful. Twister was hyperventilating, and he felt cold sweat pouring down his body, while he shook violently.

More waves of that memory assaulted his mind in fragments, flitting between reality and a dream of the cruel past. He felt the bile rise in his throat, and barely managed to turn his head away before he threw up. The retching pulled at his injuries, and he began to slump down in agony and misery. He couldn't see through tears, and couldn't draw more than the shortest and quickest of breaths. He knew the terrible sounds of distress were from him, sobbing his mind out, but he could do nothing to stop it.

They were closer now, and Twister cried out and began to crawl away from them, attempting to cram himself into the corner between the bedside table and the wall. He had little strength to do so, and slid the rest of the way to the floor, where he lay on his side in defeat. Hands arrived then – very gentle hands, taking him and easing him up to the bed again.

"It's okay," Noelani whispered. "It's _okay_. Breathe. Just breathe. I promise you, we're not going to hurt you."

"Dad? Mom? What's going on? Is he okay?"

Twister only distantly heard this voice – a voice that most certainly didn't belong to any adult. There was youth in that voice... someone his age. It shocked him. His father never allowed other teenagers into the mix; the customer base paid exclusively for Twister, and Twister alone.

Which meant that these were not customers. The latter conclusion had been the right one, after all, and he was in the hands of strangers. Strangers who now knew his secrets.

"Otto, please go get some towels," Ray ordered, speaking towards the door. "Reggie, call the police. Tell them... tell them there's a young man here who needs assistance from their SVU."

"SVU?" a second teenage voice queried.

"They'll know what it means. Please, go."

Twister knew what 'SVU' meant, and it sent more waves of raw fear through his system. "Y-you c-c-can't tell, c-can't! D-don't," he choked out, "P-please! D-don't tell. He'll k-k-kill m... me..."

"Who, sweetie?" Noelani prompted.

"Dad. He'll k-kill me. He'll kill me! PLEASE!"

"Shh, take it easy. Remember to breathe. No one is going to hurt you."

Twister couldn't focus. Everything around him felt like a threat, closing in on him. He saw Ray and Noelani above him, trying to calm him, but each time he looked to their faces, memory replaced them with the faces of the many souls who had taken him, at one time or another. He began to fight back – something he was taught he must _never_ do.

Ray and Noelani were hard-pressed to keep him on the bed, so violent and panicked was his resistance. His thrashing loosened bandages, and the wound occupying his chest began to bleed again, until red showed through. Twister was howling, too far gone to know which way was up, and his eyes were bloodshot and almost rolled back with his stress.

"He's gonna give himself a heart attack!" Noelani cried.

"Otto!" Ray called.

Otto came racing back into the room a few moments later, arms full of towels. He paled, staring wide-eyed at the strange teenager on the bed, and hesitated. Ray glanced up briefly at him, and reluctantly, Otto came closer, setting the towels down on the bed, before withdrawing several steps.

"Otto, you remember when Reg hurt her back?" Ray said.

"Y-yeah?"

"Our medicine cabinet, top shelf. There's a vial of morphine left, should be sterile needles with it. Bring it, now! As fast as you can!"

Noelani was shocked. "You're going to drug him? Ray-"

"If we don't get something to calm him down, he really will give himself a heart attack," Ray replied, between struggling with Twister. "If you have any other option..."

Noelani shifted her weight on the bed, and though Ray was puzzled, he followed her lead, taking over restraining Twister as she released her hold on him. She brought her hands to the sides of the boy's head, and gently held them there. She hushed him, at first, without using words, but eventually, she began to sing to him.

It was a Hawaiian song, a lullaby both old and simple, and Noelani sang it sweetly, with the soft tones that only a mother could manage. It didn't matter that the boy likely couldn't understand the lyrics – all that mattered now was that she hold his focus. She looked into his eyes, mustering every ounce of honesty, openness, and loving care that she could into her expression. And she sang.

The impact was slow, at first; Twister was yelling too wildly to truly notice it. As Noelani kept repeating the song, however, both she and Ray felt his struggles diminishing. Reggie and Otto, having returned from their tasks, stood by in complete silence, nearly as hypnotized by the melody as Twister was becoming.


	64. Chapter 63

_A/N: Oh man. Yeah. Um. This one was... I don't even know where this one came from. It ended up being the most miscellaneous research I have ever done for one of these story fragments. Man. Wish I had a boat, though._

* * *

"This is bullshit."

"Otto," Reggie warned.

"It is! Great idea, Sammy: We'll do a _week long_ report on _freediving!_ Like _that_ won't go wrong."

"Hey!" Sam protested. "How was I supposed to know _he_ was the one we'd be assigned to?! I didn't know he did freediving. I just thought it would be a cool project!"

"And now we're stuck with that lame-o. For a week! I can't believe this," Otto kicked irritably at the dock boards.

In truth, Reggie partially agreed with her brother, though she knew it wasn't really Sam's fault. She'd been just as enthusiastic about the topic of their year-end report... right up until Ms. Frittmon had eagerly clapped her hands, declaring that she knew the _perfect_ person to join their group. At that point, she had put in a 'special request' to another classroom, and arranged to borrow one of the students.

"I just know you'll all do well," she had gushed eagerly. "Why, you four were always so close as kids! I'm sure he'll be pleased to join."

And that's when she'd led Twister in; a reluctant, unhappy, wary Twister, who took one look at the trio, and realized he was sealed into a pact he couldn't get out of.

They had broken ties with him back in middle school, the sad way that many groups part during such years of tumult. In truth, they couldn't recall why they had argued, then fought, then stopped speaking to one another. As far as Sam, Reggie and Otto were concerned, however, Twister was long since an outsider to them; dead to them.

He was an outsider to just about everyone in their high school, in fact. The times they had seen him after that last fight, he'd bee utterly alone, far separated from the normal social cliques and gatherings. He got bullied about it, at first, until he became too much of an outcast to be bullied. Even Otto – harboring the most resentment – eventually stopped badmouthing his ex-best friend, though unlike most, neither he, nor Reggie, nor Sam, forgot the ghost that was Twister Rodriguez.

Seeing him again – no, being _forced_ to acknowledge him – brought back all manner of unpleasant feelings, and from the look on their ghost's face, he, too, remembered.

Excuses had been tried, and failed, in the face of stern lecture, once the teachers actually caught on that all was not peachy between the teens: They were to work together, not because they were friends, but because both Twister and Otto would need the credits. There was also another, deeper reason, spoken only in hushed agreement between the staff: They knew full well that Twister had no real friends. Why not make this an attempt to give him much-needed socialization?

From the get-go, it was clear that Twister had become accustomed to being alone. Granted, things were ice-over-hell freezing between him and the others, but his silence was still deeply uncanny. He took no time to engage in small talk or pointless conversation, and when he did speak to them, it was short and to the point. It soon became clear that he addressed everyone in this manner; even the teachers, to whom he showed neither scorn nor innate respect.

Now, as Reggie, Otto and Sam waited on the dock for his boat to arrive, they wondered what four days on the water – two of them part of an overnight visit – was going to be like with him. It was weird enough to them that he had a boat; he lived on it, in fact, for everyone knew the story of his estrangement from his parents and family, and his subsequent departure from under their roof.

With the exception of Sam, they'd never known Twister specifically lived on an old coast guard vessel. Never known it, right up until that vessel docked in the vacant bay where Twister had gruffly told them to meet him. They stared, open-mouthed, for this craft, in contrast to her dinghy-and-trawler neighbors, was nearly a full patrol ship. She was long since renamed and disarmed, sure, but still unmistakable in her military profile.

"What," Otto blurted, as the engines slowed to a lull.

"This must have cost him a fortune," Reggie remarked, in awe.

"Actually, from what Ms. Frittmon told me, he bought her second-hand from another sailor in the area, because she was damaged," Sam babbled, still gawking. "Still... not cheap. But not much more costly than buying his own place on land, I suppose."

"Thanks, boy genius," Otto remarked, tearing his gaze away and frowning. "Who cares?"

Twister appeared from the wheelhouse, expression stony, as he surveyed them below. He made his way down a set of steps near the stern, then cast a line, easily catching the docking cleat in a loop. A flimsy metal ladder was haphazardly thrown onto the railings before them, and Twister waited in silence.

Reggie made the first hesitant step, realizing that this was it – there would be no introductions, or briefings, or pissing about on the docks with questions and chatter. They were here to write a report on freediving, among other at-sea intricacies, and Twister intended to make haste with it. Steeling herself, Reggie clambered awkwardly up the ladder, throwing her legs over the railing, and landing unsteadily on the deck.

Otto followed next, then Sam, a little less gracefully. The moment Sam had hit feet on the deck, Twister leaped off, unhitched the line, and nimbly jumped aboard again. He ignored them as he sped by, back up to the wheelhouse, and they exchanged glances, before following him up the steps.

They got a glimpse of civilian life adapted to a military ship: Here was a laundry line, strung up and full of damp, worn clothes that fluttered against what had formerly been a machine gun mounting. Tied down and secured were various crates of all makes and sizes, and there was a fishing net wrapped around a section of railing. It wasn't untidy; the moods of the sea required a certain orderly stowage of objects, lest they be lost or cause accidents, and there was no exception here.

Twister had already taken his place at the helm, and shut the door behind him. Sam reached out to try the door, but found it locked. They were left to meander about the ship, though they kept close together, and refrained from touching much of anything... at first. Otto located a rather hole-marked life jacket, which he dutifully handed to Sam, as Twister slowly steered the ship out of the dock yards, and made for the opening to sea.

"Well, this is not so bad," Sam remarked, feeling more secure in the jacket. "It's kind of like a ferry ride..." he trailed off, staring at a wicked harpoon gun fixed to the bulkhead, as he followed the siblings through the hold below.

Otto squinted at a stereo set that had been mounted on a panel, with a battered MP3 player tied with twine to the side. He began rifling through the contents, curious in spite of himself, for who knew how Twister's tastes in music had evolved since the days of Shafikka?

Reggie, in the meantime, found herself approaching the galley. Something tugged inside her, as she studied the simplicity of it all – there was a homely, but strangely lonely, feeling about the place. Pots and pans hung from closed hooks, swaying with the sea, and the counters were worn and tired with years of use. She risked a look into what could only be a fridge, and found scarce little in the way of fresh food – some milk and cheese, and containers or wrappings with various fish inside. Most of the actual food came from carefully-stored tins on shelves.

To Reggie and Sam's alarm, music abruptly began playing through the stereo, and they all realized, a little too late, that Twister had rigged up more speakers all over the ship. The song was unusual – some dark, foreign pagan folk, with a hint of metal behind its makings.

"Very Nordic," Sam remarked, as they approached a much-embarrassed Otto.

"How the hell do I turn it off?!" Otto demanded, thrusting the music player at Sam.

Sam and Reggie gave no response, staring wide-eyed at a point just behind Otto.

"What?" Otto asked, blinking.

They remained still and silent, but Otto got his reply soon enough. A calloused hand abruptly snatched the object out of his hands from behind, and the music halted. Otto wheeled about, startled, and took several steps back, like he'd been burned.

Twister faced them, regarding them coldly, as he set the device back where it belonged.

"Sorry," Otto mumbled, feeling oddly self-conscious under that look. "Um... where, uh... where are our cabins?"

Twister said nothing, but strode by them, walking easily, while the trio stumbled a little with the motions given by the deeper waters. They followed him down to a second level, smaller than this, where several bare bunks awaited them. There were thin mattresses and bedding secured at the far end of the deck, and Twister waited until they'd spotted them, before he silently turned back around, presumably to continue monitoring their course.

The bare neglect of the bunks gave them a bleak feeling about the whole trip. They set themselves up, cramming their overnight gear in tiny, fixed footlockers under the bed. There was tense silence between them, and they feared venturing back to the upper decks. They passed the time individually, starting their essays for the report, and finding they could get nowhere with an introduction.

It was Sam who eventually had to go up for fresh air, as the motions of the sea pried at his somewhat weaker constitution. Reggie and Otto declined to join him, averse to the frosty strangeness that came from being anywhere near Twister.

As Sam made it unsteadily to the lower deck at the stern, and drew in deep breaths, he found he wasn't alone. Twister was seated on top of one of the crates, fiddling with thin string and a fishing fly. Sam watched him out of the corner of his eye, and realized Twister was crafting it from scratch. He risked a better glance, curious – and found Twister was also watching him.

"You built that?" Sam blurted, swallowing both nausea and uneasiness, as he quickly looked out to sea again.

Twister kept his silence, and continued delicately wrapping the fly.

"Where, ah... where are we heading, anyway?" Sam tried.

"Channel Islands," came the growling reply.

"The national park?"

"It's quieter. I hate crowded waters."

Sam started. Was that a _volunteered_ piece of information? He frowned to himself, and found he recalled his part in the fight with Twister, and all that followed. How long had Twister been isolated from people? It showed, both in his demeanor, and in the way he lived aboard this ship. The Twister that Sam had battled with hadn't been adverse to people before this; shoobies, maybe, but not people altogether. Twister of old would have been disturbed by the silence; frightened by the emptiness of the sea that lay before them.

This Twister wasn't. He seemed almost peaceful here, relaxed in a way Sam hadn't ever known him to be. Then again, it had been at least five or six years since he'd known Twister, hadn't it? Five or six years... and yet, Sam couldn't find bitterness in himself.

"I'm, uh... I'm sorry about the stereo thing, earlier," he said. "We were all kind of... curious, I guess. It's good music, though. I didn't know you liked Heilung."

Twister said nothing.

For some reason, though, Sam had said the right thing. He felt the tension between them lessen, and the silence grew a little easier to bear. Perhaps it was because the others weren't around; Sam suddenly wondered how Twister felt, having kept to this lifestyle for so long, only to suddenly have his personal space invaded like this.

"What's it like?" Sam blurted again. He looked at Twister, who didn't comprehend the question for a moment. "Freediving."

Twister stopped wrapping the fishing fly, and set it down carefully in the box at his feet. For awhile, Sam was sure he wouldn't respond, as usual. But there was a thoughtfulness in Twister's eyes – something else that had been absent, long ago – and he eventually sighed and shut the box, rising to his feet.

"I'm sorry," Sam said hurriedly, "It's just the report, you know? Maybe you're not used to talking-" he cut himself off, wincing. "Sorry."

"It's better down there," Twister replied quietly, not looking at him. "The water doesn't need you to talk to it – there are no words down there. Just the ocean, and the deepest dark, and a single breath."

It was the most words Sam had ever heard him say in a row, and it was a profound thing, even if the words were simple. The way he spoke of it carried a certain reverence for the world beneath their feet; a respect that was beyond the casual admiration of the ocean that Sam, personally, had learned from surfing. Surfing was one danger; what Twister did was something else entirely.

"How far down do you go?"

Twister paused, as if wondering whether he should answer, before he said, "Usually only 30 fathoms. Sometimes 60, if I'm not fishing or filming."

"Jesus. In one breath?"

"That's the idea."

"Where... where did you get your qualification training?"

Twister gave him a funny look. "Training?"

"Yeah. You're... wait, you're not certified?!"

"No."

"So you just... dive. On your own. You learned on your own? Taught yourself how to breathe and everything?"

"Yeah."

"Jesus. You better not tell Tice that. I don't think it's technically legal without certification."

Twister shrugged, unfazed by Sam's alarm. He went quiet again, and Sam heard footsteps on the decking behind them. As Otto and Reggie emerged, Twister turned, and took his tackle box with him. Sam bit back a curse, and gave the pair a reproachful glare, as Twister vanished back to the upper deck.

"You okay, Sammy?" Reggie asked.

"I had him talking," Sam said quietly, hoping Twister wouldn't overhear.

Otto snorted. "Him? You mean he said more than two words? I didn't think he knew how."

"He's different," Sam countered. "I... don't really know how. He's... smarter, I guess. Or wiser."

"Twister? _Wise?_"

"You didn't hear him. He talks about the ocean the way Trish does."

That brought Reggie and Otto to stillness. They'd heard Trish like that, when she was in her surfing mindset; heard the connection she held to the sea, that none of them had quite come to fully understand or embrace. It wasn't the sort of perpetually-stoned 'Mother Ocean' bullshit touted by the surf bums, either. This was darker; wilder, like nature itself.

"Bullshit," Otto said doubtfully, after a moment.

"No bullshit," Sam answered flatly. "Though, it's different, somehow. I guess it would be, really, since he works under the waves, and not on them... but it's the same level as Trish."

"Nobody's the same level as Trish. She's the sea incarnate, dude. Queen Neptune."

"Yeah, well. So's Twister. King Neptune."

"Bullshit."

Sam sighed, throwing his hands up. "Whatever. He talked to me about freediving, is the point."

"What did he say?" Reggie asked, going into reporter mode.

Sam explained the short conversation to the siblings, trying once more to reiterate to Otto the way Twister had spoken. Otto wouldn't hear it, but Reggie was more open to the idea... which prompted her to be a little more daring. While Sam and Otto began bickering again, she took to the stairs, moving cautiously, as if she expected Twister to attack her for doing so.

He'd entered the wheelhouse again – but left the door open this time. Reggie hesitated, uncertain whether it was deliberate or not. His back was turned, and he seemed preoccupied with the helm and panel, which gave Reggie a little time to better observe the interior.

She'd been wondering where Twister slept, because he clearly didn't take to the bunks below; she and Otto discovered he used half the area to store spare fuel and water tanks. Evidently, he made much of his home-at-sea up here, in the wheelhouse. Spaces where naval consoles might once have rested had now been adapted to stationary tables, some with maps ingrained in the surfaces.

At one corner, there was a small cot, attached by bolts to the floor and bulkhead, and next to it lay an assortment of things: Unusual rocks, curious small shells, and bits of what looked like more fishing gear. There were carvings of driftwood, and a rack lined with a fishing bow and its arrows. Another harpoon gun lay here at rest, appearing somewhat newer and sleeker than its cousin below.

What got her were the number of what appeared to be _books_, stacked and secured to their own shelf. It wasn't until she ventured another step in, that she saw them for what they were: Blank books, filled by hand. Journals. Dozens of them. She'd never taken Twister as a reader before, but for him to have written so much was even wilder to her.

Reggie was so preoccupied with staring at this discovery, that she didn't realize Twister had been alerted to her presence, until he deliberately lifted, and then loudly dropped, a sheathed diving knife onto one of the metal tables. Reggie startled, then flushed red, as she saw his hostile look.

"I'm sorry," she told him quickly. "I just wanted to ask some questions – about the freediving, I mean. Sam told us a little bit about what you said already, but I was hoping to sort of... do an interview... kind of... thing..." she trailed off, backing up, for Twister had not lost that expression.

"The way you interviewed me in eighth grade?" he said, his voice almost a whisper.

Reggie froze, the memory striking her. She'd forgotten about that, until his simple query brought it sharply back. That had been the last time she, Sam or Otto had bothered messing with him – she'd tricked him into thinking he was being interviewed for a sports column by one of her 'associates' for the school paper, when really, she'd just wanted to make a fool of his shy ways in front of hiding listeners.

It was awful, now that she thought back on it. Instead of her nonexistent 'associate', Reggie had shown up, and fired the questions at him, meanly, just to hear his stuttered, flustered attempts to reply. And for every attempt he gave, she simply kept asking, cold and calm. She'd asked his _name_. His identity, as if she didn't know him.

That had also been the last time he'd ever really spoken openly to anyone.

And she saw it there, behind that stony, hidden mask of his: Pain. It was so brief, and it might not have been at all, if Reggie hadn't known better. She had hurt him badly, all those years ago, and hadn't even seen it until today. Maybe she hadn't been as openly hateful towards him as Otto had been, but she'd hurt him the most, if not from her actions, then simply through her failure as what she had been to him: A big sister.

Maybe he'd deserved it, in a way, but she couldn't bring herself to quite believe that. She'd made him into this: Captain Nemo reincarnate, stalking about under the seven seas, scorning the land, and never showing who he had once been.

"Twister," she found herself whispering back, the name so foreign on her tongue. "I'm sorry."

He was closed; he said nothing. He _always_ said nothing. How much of that nothing, Reggie wondered, was resting in the pages of those tired journals?

She turned and left the wheelhouse, and felt his eyes burning accusingly at her back.

…

That night, as Twister cast anchor off the shores of the Channel Islands, the trio held an awkward dinner, before turning in early for a fitful sleep. Sam was in and out of the room, finally succumbing to bouts of seasickness, until Twister came down in the small hours, and wordlessly offered him medicine.

Reggie and Otto wouldn't have been able to rest, even if Sam hadn't kept waking them to rush out. Reggie was haunted by the memory of the mock interview, which replayed over and over in her head, until she was left staring vacantly into the bulkhead. Otto, in the bunk across from her, tossed and turned, bothered not by guilt, but by an increasing pressure of untapped rage. He remembered the fights the most, and hated Twister for them.

As the sun rose by early dawn, the three of them gave up on rest, and readied to greet the new morning, appearing as zombies. They took turns for the cramped little shower, where Reggie found out that the water spray was timed, and thus left with rather more soap on her body than she wanted. The trio eventually shuffled their way out to the open deck, to view the nearby Channel Islands.

Twister was already up, and looked fresher than any of them, evidently used to his life out here. In fact, he was already geared up, and nearly ready to do his first dive of the day.

"You're late," he told them curtly.

Otto gave him a murderous scowl. "Fuck off. Nobody slept because your stupid ship sucks. It's a good thing you don't have any friends, because you don't know shit about guest beds, dude."

In response, Twister simply looked at him, as if Otto were an unpleasant substance on the sole of his shoes... or, in this case, his bare foot. He held that look for a long time, pressing on them with his suddenly-weaponized silence, until Otto sneered and turned away.

"So," Sam said, desperate to end the awkward situation, "How far is your first dive?"

"About 30 fathoms."

Reggie's eyes went wide, and even Otto lost some of his stubborn ire. Twister ignored this, before he donned some sort of head-mounted, mini camera, and handed something to Sam – a screen.

"So you can see," he explained.

Sam toyed with the basic controls of the panel, and was about to fire off more questions, but Twister was already moving for the railing, grabbing his harpoon as he went. Here, he stopped, and removed his shirt and pants, revealing he was wearing little more than a set of black Speedo bottoms, and a tight strap on his chest for the harpoon to rest in while he dived. He began to breathe in a controlled, hefty manner, teaching his body to bring in more oxygen – it would, after all, be the last chance to do so for several minutes.

Truth be told, they weren't terribly focused on his breathing. His loss of clothes revealed to them his form, and some of the secrets it held. He had the body of a skilled swimmer – strong, but lithe. And all over him were marks; scars.

Some looked to be from various encounters with... whatever he had met above and below the waves that had taken a liking to his flesh: A bite or two from a carnivorous fish. A close encounter with a hungry shark. A brush or ten with hard rocks, corals, or hidden debris. A fire that had come dangerously close to consuming the ship.

But the worst were the lines. Straight, thick, brutal marks, like long tiger stripes, or a macabre ladder, all over his thighs and parts of his chest. The three friends, being familiar with the world of teenage turmoil, knew from the experiences of friends that these marks were the result of the most dangerous adversary Twister had ever encountered:

Himself.

He took one more strong breath, donned an old pair of goggles, climbed the railing, and threw himself gracefully up and outward, diving in an arc. The trio rushed to the edge of the ship, just in time to see him hit the water below. He sunk swiftly out of sight not long afterward, and a few moments later, the screen lit up.

"It's kinda weird," Sam remarked, as they crowded around. "It's like watching one of his movies again. Remember that?"

"He always did have a talent for it," Reggie sighed, lamenting those easier days.

Otto scoffed. "Doesn't excuse how much of a kook he is."

Neither Sam nor Reggie mustered a comment on this; they were too busy watching Twister's descent.

Reggie whistled. "He's moving fast..."

"I can't _see_ anything!" Otto complained. "It's just water."

"Give it a sec," Sam replied. "We should be seeing the ocean floor soon."

Almost as soon as he said it, the screen filled with an odd horizon of sand and rock. Twister's descent slowed, and they saw his arms and legs move, as he righted himself and sank, like a rock, until his feet touched the bottom. At the top right, a small, red number, measured by the camera, read his depth at 53.5 meters.

He moved the moment he was down, and this, too, was done with a casual, graceful speed. Anyone who had attempted walking underwater knew how hard it could be, yet the way Twister moved made it seem as easy as a gentle Sunday stroll. Already, he had the harpoon off its holster, and he began seeking the fish he had come here for. Every now and again, he'd turn his head, revealing just how far away the surface was, in the small silhouette of the ship in the water above.

"Um... how long did he say he could stay down there like that?" Reggie asked anxiously.

"He didn't," Sam replied, with just as much lack of ease. "But, from what I've read, there have been freedive records of over 22 minutes. That was static apnea, though... plus the guy with the world record sucked on an oxygen tank for like half an hour before he started."

"So...?"

"Twist is self-taught, Reg. He'll be alright."

"That's not an answer."

"Come on, Reggie," Otto complained. "You sound like Sam's mom. And it's Twister, for crying out loud! What do _you_ care?"

"I take that to mean you know how to drive this ship," Reggie snapped back. "Or how to navigate back to the mainland. Or how to operate the radio, if he even has one?"

The siblings exchanged narrow-eyed glares, but Sam started flapping his hand at them. "Shush, you guys! He's tracking fish."

"No way he can hit those," Otto remarked, watching the fast-swimming school of sand bass. "Those things move like silk. Why can't he just line fish like everybody else?"

"Because then he wouldn't be freediving," Sam shrugged.

Twister remained in place for what felt like an eternity, watching the sand bass weave lazily around in the water. The gun floated easily in his hands, and his aim moved with the fish. He seemed in no hurry; there was no fear in his motion, nor anticipation, nor worry about how long he had been down there.

When he fired, it was so quick, they almost missed it. The speargun's projectile shot through the water, trailing its thin line behind it. The school startled, but by then, it was too late for three of their number, who wriggled on the barbs, to little avail. The second he saw he'd taken a successful shot, Twister kicked off from the ocean floor, heading directly upward, and carrying his catch on the line behind him.

A minute or two later, they ditched the screen, and watched as he surfaced, and swam over to the ladder he'd cast off the side of the ship this morning. In total, he'd been underwater for eight minutes or so, no more. They ran for the ladder, afraid in spite of themselves that he wouldn't be able to climb up without assistance. Yet, as he left the water, he seemed in perfect health, and he didn't spare them a glance, busy reeling in his line.

"That," Reggie breathed, "Was awesome."

"Second that," Sam agreed.

They both looked to Otto, who stood back a little, his arms folded. He seemed to have taken a page out of Twister's book, and had nothing to say on the matter, though he watched with interest as the three sea bass came up out of the water.

"What will you do with those?" Sam asked.

"Dinner," Twister told him.

"So you don't sell catch?"

"Sometimes."

"Do you even have a license to fish, or are you just doing whatever you want to do?" Otto demanded. "Do you kill endangered species, too?"

"Never."

Twister's answer was deep and serious, and he almost looked offended. Otto had been meaning to dig under his skin a little, but there was no anger in Twister's eyes for the dig; only for the idea that he would go after threatened species. It was a look they had seen before, on a different face: Trish. Trish looked like that, whenever people mentioned the environment at sea.

Otto didn't want to believe what he was seeing. "So instead of boarding and skating like normal people, you turned into some kind of... of weird-ass fisherman," he spat. "What, you couldn't handle life? You're so special, you're 'too cool' to hang out with people, so you sit around on this hunk of metal instead? Is that why you cut yourself?"

"Otto," Reggie warned sharply.

"You're a freak, _Maurice_," Otto went on, pushing his sister away. "It's no wonder you can't make friends! Who wants to be friends with this lone sea-wolf crap?!"

Twister didn't bother to engage him further. He began carefully easing the dead fish off the end of the harpoon, placing them inside one of the cool boxes secured on the deck. His silence only infuriated Otto further. He stepped right up to Twister, forcing him to meet his eye.

"Coward," Otto said flatly. "You can't just ignore me. _Say_ something."

"Otto, that's enough!" Reggie yelled.

"You're scared, aren't you? That's what this silent tough-guy bullshit is about. You're too much of a pussy to speak up anymore, so you act like it's all part of some big fucking mystery, while you come back to your little ship and cut yourself and cry."

Sam and Reggie both shrieked their warnings, but Otto had no time to react. One moment, he was right up in Twister's face. The next, he saw stars, and pain erupted from his nose. Blinking, he saw the sky above, shortly before the frightened faces of Reggie and Sam leaned in over him. He sat up, shocked, and tenderly touched his nose, where blood had begun oozing out.

Twister met his gaze again, one fist clenched tightly around the loose harpoon, while the other bled from a fresh scrape.

"You hit me," Otto blurted from the deck, shocked.

"You killed me," Twister shot back hotly.

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'm not somebody you just keep around as a fucking joke trophy. I never was."

"What are you _talking_ about, dude?!"

Predictably, Twister didn't reply, but Otto suddenly saw that he'd been wrong, at least partially; Twister _was_ afraid to speak, that much was true... but he also didn't know _how_ to speak. Not always. Otto squinted up at him, trying to decipher his last words. A joke trophy?

"What happened to you, Twister?" he asked, feeling unusually sober. "You fought with us-"

"I didn't fight _shit_ with you – not until you made it a fight. I only asked you for basic respect."

Otto blinked, but Reggie and Sam traded meaningful looks. They had, after all, entered the fight shortly after it had started. It was coming back to them, though like all these memories, the pictures were clouded by emotions.

"What does he mean, Otto?" Reggie asked carefully.

"You think _I_ did this?" Otto said incredulously. "Made you into the fucking Jaws guy? You cussed me out that day. You called Raymundo a surf bum. Don't make this like you're some kind of innocent little angel, you dipshit!"

"I'm not innocent. But I'm not your pet, either," Twister growled. "That's all I wanted: For you to stop treating me like dirt."

"It's what you are!"

"Not now. Before. When we were friends."

"Twister?" Reggie said, puzzled. "We never-"

"Not you. Him. You just followed," he looked at her – _really_ looked at her, with actual feeling, instead of that endless wall of blank. "I said awful shit about you, and your dad. I wish I hadn't. And I'm sorry. I made you turn. You, and Sam," his gaze dropped back to Otto, and hardened. "Not you."

"I don't understand," Reggie said, saddened by the pain she saw in Twister once more.

"Are you saying you felt like Otto treated you badly?" Sam asked carefully.

"It's not one day, or one event," Twister said heavily, still watching Otto. "It's every day, in little ways. Every time you stole from me, or tricked me, or gloated over me. I was your ego boost. But the minute I decided I didn't want to be under your boot, you turned on me. And you made them turn," his voice broke. "You made the whole fucking school turn. You _killed_ me, just because I wanted to be a _person_. What was I supposed to do? Choose between your boot, and everyone else's? That's not a choice. This," he gestured to the sea, "This is a choice. I may not be a person anymore... but I have this choice."

He was crying. More than anything else, that scared them the most. He realized what he had said – how he had spoken, at length, to someone else, for the first time in _years_ – and he turned abruptly, resetting his harpoon gun, and laying it to rest in a secure box. He was breathing hard, but this was no diving exercise. His walls, so carefully maintained, to keep him at a safe distance from others, were fracturing under this pressure.

This interaction. Social. People. Feelings. The things he had turned to the sea to escape from.

Otto's first instinct was to start yelling at Twister again – before he checked the reaction. He studied Twister, like he was seeing him for the first time, while his mind raced over what the boy had just confessed.

Everything suddenly seemed impossible and ridiculous, like Otto was thirteen all over again, and was watching this whole event through the little television screen mounted above the Shore Shack tables. Twister had a _ship_. His own vessel, the _Tlaloc_. He was a freediver. He was a fisherman! He lived for the sea. He drank the rains and lived by finding his own food.

And he was alone.

It was a picture that didn't fit; Twister should never have been alone. Twister, who came from a family of countless cousins and uncles and aunts; whose house was never still; who thrived on people and interaction. _Twister_ was _alone_.

The memory of the fight, drenched as it had been in flame and fire, became doused in cooling waters. Otto climbed to his feet, in something of a daze, like a man waking from a dream. He moved towards Twister on impulse – _Ottomatic_, he thought to himself – and wondered what he was doing. Sam and Reggie reached to stop him, but soon saw there was no hostility in his step.

If Twister had fallen out of time, Otto would fall with him, just this once. Never had he liked showing affection, especially to other guys. But the way Twister stood, shaking, trying to hide a breakdown in broad daylight, told Otto that this code could be relaxed, just this once.

It was only a hand, and it was hesitant and light. But he rested it on Twister's shoulder, with all the care he could muster.

Twister fell still. Rigid. Interaction. Social. People. _Feelings_.

"You're a person, Twist," Otto told him gently. "You never _stopped_ being a person. And I... I wish I hadn't made you feel like you weren't. I wish... I could take back every year since that day, but I can't. All I can say is that I'm sorry, and I hope... I hope that maybe, one day, you'll be able to forgive me."

Twister said nothing – always said nothing. But this time, Otto felt as if his old friend had spoken a full sermon with his silence.

…

Thing were not perfect – never were, despite what fairy tales had everyone desperately wishing for. Once, fights might have been easier to repair between that famous quartet, with ill-will being whisked away with a secret handshake. No longer.

For now, a tentative truce lasted aboard the ship. Twister still kept the wheelhouse door locked as he steered them home, and the trio kept to the area below decks, uncertain now that their wayward captain had briefly shown them what was under his mask. No one spoke of the apologies, perhaps in the tradition of quiet contemplation that had run this vessel for five years or more.

When they'd first come to the docks, they'd made a pact together, that as soon as they reached Ocean Shores again, they would get as far away from Twister as possible, and only interact with him again for as long as it took for him to show them other diving areas.

Now, as Twister pulled in and moored his ship, and they clambered unsteadily onto land again, they hesitated.

Twister, busy making fast the ropes, straightened and turned when he didn't hear the sound of feet clomping up the wooden ramp. He had retreated back into his mask, but there was a little something in him now; one might call it a cautious optimism, if one believed such a thing were possible for a guy so lost at sea.

They waited. The two parties watched one another, each measuring the unspoken.

Abruptly, Twister climbed back aboard.

Reggie released a tired sigh, visibly disappointed. "Come on, guys," she said moodily. "Let's hit the Shack."

"It can't be too easy for him to come ashore," Sam mused. "I mean, he does come to school, but only because he's required to. That ship is his safety. It's probably gonna take awhile before he learns we're not going to bite him."

To their surprise, Otto just chuckled. He didn't turn to leave with them.

"What?" Reggie asked suspiciously, halting.

Otto pointed. "Man, you two are drama queens. He's just locking up the boat. Look!"

Sure enough, Twister emerged back onto the deck, a set of keys in his hands... and a backpack on his shoulders. Hope blossomed for Reggie and Sam once again, as Twister took one last, careful look at his ship, before he, too, leaped ashore, this time to follow them.

The walking pattern was awkward. At first, they tried to hang back, noticing that Twister moved a little more slowly. Gradually, though, it became clear that he kept hanging back from them, and they eventually allowed him to keep his distance. They couldn't tell whether it felt like a courtesy, or felt like they were leaving him out, but he made no move to join their light chatter, so they let him be.

There was, after all, a greater test ahead of him yet.

The trio quickened pace when they came within sight of the Shack. They were eager to get their hands on something besides seafood, and all attempts to restrain themselves dropped away in that instant. Twister watched them, also quickening pace, but just as he was about to enter the Shore Shack, he stopped, wary and apprehensive.

Reggie stopped too, halfway in, when she noticed Twister wasn't keeping up. While Sam and Otto shared an enthusiastic greeting with Tito, Reggie turned back towards him, and offered a small smile.

"It's okay," she encouraged. "Dad's not here today. He went to some reunion up in Tahoe."

She couldn't tell whether that made him feel better, but regardless, she beckoned to him, and, after one final hesitation, he stepped into the restaurant, for the first time in years. The delay caused Sam and Otto to look back, while Tito watched on, curious at first, right up until he came to the slow recognition that brought pale shock to his face.

Reggie sat next to Sam, and Twister surveyed the bar, before sitting next to her, at the end.

When he looked up, it was straight into Tito's eyes.

"Little Twister-cuz," Tito said softly, with both awe and sorrow.

"Hi Tito," Twister's voice was clipped and tense. He couldn't hold Tito's gaze.

Blinking, for fear that he might weep, Tito looked over to the other teens questioningly. None of them seemed able to meet his eye, either – until Sam gave a sigh, and bit the bullet.

"So... we sort of..." he began unsteadily. "Uh. Hitchhiker?"

"And a sorely missed one at that," Tito replied immediately. "What'll it be, little cuzes? You still like the fish taco, Twister?"

Good old Tito; never missed a beat. Every day they knew him, the teens found new ways to appreciate him. He didn't act like everything was alright, but he knew enough, looking at the 'reunited' quartet, that he ought ease into things. He could read Twister's discomfort and fear a mile away, and much else besides, not least because he had been the sympathetic ear behind every complaint and lament since the fallout of that fateful fight.

He'd also heard the rumors, about the Boy Who Didn't Speak; the outcast and his ship. None of them were friendly rumors, and too many, he'd heard at the hands of the other teens, before they had moved on from him. Once or twice, Tito had even seen Twister, making his way to or from school. But never did Twister stop at the Shack, even though it was clear as day that he missed Tito.

It turned out that Twister still liked the fish tacos, though he made a face, and muttered something about bringing fresher fish. The comment so surprised them all in its lightness, that there was even a brief smile on Otto's face as a result, and Tito bellowed a great and earth-shaking laugh.

They ate in peace, for awhile – at least until more familiar faces pulled into the Shack.

"Hey, girlfriend! You guys are back early!"

Trish strolled right in, propping her surfboard up against one of the pillars. Reggie wheeled right around in surprise, and beamed for her friend, before nerves took over. "Trish! Uh... fancy meeting you here."

Trish raised an eyebrow. "That bad, huh? You can tell me about it in a minute. I need something filling after those wicked waves today."

She moved towards the end seat of the bar area, automatically, like she'd done this before a thousand times. So ingrained was this, that she was already right next to Twister before she stopped dead, realizing her destination was already occupied.

Twister didn't turn around, but he'd gone tense, on guard the moment Trish had walked in. She hadn't been active in the days he'd been mercilessly bullied, but he didn't easily forget that she'd avoided reaching out to him, all the same. Her lifelong saying of riding waves, not making them, held her as neutral.

"Uh, hey, Twister," Trish tried cautiously, giving the others a confused glance.

"Hey Trish," came the short reply.

This, too, startled Trish. She thought he didn't speak anymore. "So, you, uh... I heard you steered everyone out to sea."

Twister sniffed absently, picking at the crumbs of his long-devoured taco. It was the only real movement in the place; everyone else had fallen dead quiet. Despite Trish's silent, suspicious demands for explanation, none was forthcoming, and the painful discomfort remained heavy as the seconds dragged on.

"Fuck it," Trish muttered. "Must have been one hell of a cruise, to get you four to stop acting like kooks to each other. Heard your girl's a beauty on the waves, too. Funny how the sea takes your troubles away sometimes, huh?"

Twister looked around, raising an eyebrow at this peculiar olive branch.

"Got a friend or two with the fishmongers," Trish explained carefully, eyeing him right back. "She's the _Tlaloc_, right? The old Canadian warship? How'd she end up with a name like that?"

"I chose it," Twister paused, considering. "She was the _Grizzly_ before. Didn't seem right, this far south."

"Sounds Aztec."

"Water god."

"Nice. Makes sense," Trish nodded, folding her arms and leaning up against the wall. "Good base to do some freediving from. I'm an over-the-waves gal myself, but I dig."

Everyone relaxed. Even Tito had been tense, but as he witnessed the way Trish met things face to face, he turned back to the grill, to begin cooking more burgers. Twister, too, had lost a little of his tension, recognizing in Trish something of a kindred love for the water.

"See?" Sam hissed at Otto, nudging him. "King and Queen Neptune."

"You're crazy, Sammy."

Trish and Twister continued to talk – or, more accurately, Trish talked, and Twister answered sometimes, in his short, laconic way. He hadn't fallen entirely silent with her yet, which the other teens saw as a massive positive sign, and in spite of Otto's eye-rolling, there really _was_ a connection that Twister and Trish shared. This connection was lost on all others, but they each saw it in each other, and were carefully prying it out, for neither had spoken to anyone else who felt so close to the sea.


	65. Chapter 64

"Twister! What did you _do?!_"

Reggie's aggravated cry stopped Twister in his tracks, and he shrunk back from her like a scolded puppy – a remarkable feet, considering he was a full head taller than she was. Reggie didn't care how this looked; she was beyond furious, and behind her, Sam and Otto didn't look too pleased with him, either.

Tentatively, Twister held up the flyers he'd been plastering all over town. "I was trying to help," he said. "You said you wanted advertisement for the Zine. I thought if we got them out of the way early-"

"It's way too early to advertise for this article!" Reggie snapped back, snatching the flyers out of his hands. "Do you have _any_ idea what you've done?!"

Twister looked crestfallen. "Are you mad at me? I'm sorry. I just wanted to help-"

"_Stop_ saying that," Reggie cried out in frustration. "You don't help, Twister! You get in the way. You were supposed to leave this to me and Sammy, but now that the ad is out, we're gonna be _swamped_ with requests! How could you be so stupid?!"

Reggie saw the hurt surfacing in Twister's eyes, as her words cut him, but in the heat of her rage, she didn't want to care. A thousand times, she and the others had been so patient with him, for every little mistake or foolish thing he did. But this? For Reggie, it was a bridge too far. Her plate was already overflowing with school projects, and Zine projects, and projects for the volleyball team. She didn't know how she'd be able to take this additional strain.

"Just... stay out of this from now on," she told Twister flatly. "You're a disaster. I don't need this right now."

"I'm really sorry, Reg... if you want, I can go take them down-"

"You had better! This is unbelievable. You _never_ think! I don't even know how you got into high school with your stupidity! Ugh."

She turned from him, ready to stalk off. Injured, and still confused, Twister reached out, lightly touching her arm, because he hated to see his friend so stressed – especially if he had been the cause of it. He tried to apologize again, praying that she would see the sincerity of it.

Reggie responded instantly. It was an action of instinct, not thought, and she regretted it the moment it happened. Her hand flew out, and she slapped him – hard – across the face. He yipped, recoiling, while Reggie's hand and heart both stung in equal turn. Twister looked anguished, as he held a hand to the already-reddening weal on his cheek.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, eyes hollow and scared.

Reggie almost repeated it back to him – but the flyers were still in her other hand, and one glimpse of them stilled her tongue. She resumed her course with haste, not daring to look back.

Otto and Sam both watched her go, stunned at what they had just witnessed. Twister approached them, lowering his hand, to reveal how angry the mark on his face had become. Sam looked away, embarrassed for him, but Otto recovered from his shock, and felt anger replace it.

"Idiot," he spat at Twister. "Look what you did!"

"I didn't mean to," Twister said weakly, halting, and stepping back, as he recognized uncannily familiar fury in Otto's expression. "I really didn't-"

"I know. That's the problem. She's right, dude: You're a fucking moron."

"I'm sorry..."

"Maybe we should have been clearer in our instructions," Sam tried, sensing the rising tension.

"I don't see how!" Otto shot back. "Only a complete kook would misunderstand basic instructions. He's borderline retarded, Squid. Probably fully retarded! It's like trying to teach a dumb dog to play fetch, only to have him break shit all the time!"

Sam grew quiet, spying the pain in Twister's eyes. Sure, he was mad, too, but he wasn't under as much strain as Reggie, nor did he share the sense of sibling protection Otto was feeling. Still, he'd never in his life seen Reggie furious enough to outright hit someone – especially someone like Twister. For this reason, he chose to hold his objections; a choice that he would come to deeply regret, for Otto was far from done.

Without further preamble, Otto suddenly lunged at Twister, and with every ounce of his strength, he shoved the boy down harshly. Twister fell, not expecting a second attack, and he struck the side of his head on the corner of the sidewalk. He cried out, bringing his hands up to cover the area, while he lay hissing with pain. Otto stood over him, staring down coldly, and restrained himself from aiming a kick between his friend's legs.

"Stay the hell away from us," he growled. "Go do something stupid to some other poor schmuck. Who knows? Maybe you'll find a friend just as dim as you are!"

Otto took his turn to march away, leaving Sam to shake his head in worry and disbelief. Sam hesitated, for Twister hadn't yet gotten up, and seemed to still be in a great deal of pain. Otto was getting out of range, however, and Sam had no wish to come between this fight. So, after one last look at Twister, he followed.

Twister lay there for awhile, just breathing, through pain and shame. Both came from the assaults unleashed by his mistake, and from tears that were fighting to leave his control. Determined not to break down in public, he gingerly climbed to his feet, to get away from prying eyes. He had to stop and lean on the wall of a building as he did this, as aggressive throbbing stabbed through his skull, and brought dizziness and nausea along with it.

He shook it off, and walked, dragging his feet like a condemned man, his shoulders slumped, and head hanging, while he insecurely kept his hands stuffed into his pockets. His path took him down to the beach, avoiding the Shack, and all the while, he was hounded by the words of his friends. He knew he should have been trying to correct his error; trying to retrace his steps, and remove the flyers. But some terrible ache in his chest bade him onward. He needed to rest somewhere.

A little more cheer and hope reached him, as he eventually came across one of Trent's rugby scrimmages. It was a casual game, assembled between friends, and Twister felt like a good old rough-and-tumble game of rugby might help get his mind off things. He began trotting over, then had to slow, for this caused the pain in his head to worsen.

After a rest, he went right up to the group, as they split for a short break. He offered a smile to them, waving and calling out – and faltered, as their smiles disappeared at the sight of him.

"Shit. It's the Village Idiot," Trent muttered, thinking Twister couldn't hear.

"Please don't invite him to the game, Trent," one of Trent's friends said back. "We're having fun."

"Quick, get back into formations. Ignore him. If he gets too close, tackle him out of the way, but don't make it look like you want him to join."

The group split rapidly, not looking at Twister, who felt the surge of agony rise up, deep in his heart. He couldn't breathe or move, and stood there dejectedly. They didn't want to play with him; didn't want him anywhere near, in fact. They continued their game like he wasn't even there, and again, there came the sharp prick of tears at the corners of his eyes.

He walked on, hands going back into his pockets. Some members of the team watched him, and were startled by just how awful he looked, but the pressure to remain uniform and united deterred them from saying anything. One boy, less inclined to care, found himself in possession of the ball, and took his own initiative, to make it clearer to Twister that he wasn't welcome: He stopped, readied a kick, and pelted the ball directly at Twister's back.

It struck him in the head, almost directly on top of his other bruise. Twister dropped to his hands and knees in the sand, and for a moment, only heard a low ringing in his ears, and saw only dancing specks and creeping dark, both accompanied by blinding pain. When the sensation faded, slowly, he realized he could hear barely-concealed snickering and laughter.

His tears had fallen when he'd stumbled, and they continued to fall as he climbed unsteadily back to his feet, wondering when he'd fallen. He didn't look back at the rugby game; all he could think to do, though the continuous pounding in his head, and the searing shame at his core, was to escape.

His feet carried him far across the sand, while he kept his head down. He wasn't really sure how much time had passed, or even why he was upset, but he knew from the silence that he'd long since left most common beach-goers behind. He was among the start of the rocks and tide pools now – the perfect place to hide away for awhile.

A familiar laugh reached his ears.

His heart leaped to his throat, and he halted, too late. He didn't dare look up – not when there were still tears in his eyes. No matter the cost, he couldn't let _Lars_, of all people, see him crying.

And it did cost him – he couldn't see Lars lunging, until it was too late. He was almost torn off his feet, while an arm wrapped around his neck, trapping him in a headlock. It increased the pressure on his bruise, and his ears gave that curious ringing again. More than anything, though, this simple attack sent Twister off the edge. He was _done_. He didn't want any more; couldn't take it.

Lars said something of the usual brand, trying to tease his brother, but Twister didn't hear it. He jabbed his elbow harshly into Lars' gut, and pushed him away clumsily. There was no grace in the motion, nor strength; this was a desperate move, and once Lars had recovered, he squinted suspiciously at Twister, as the boy continued walking down the beach.

"What?" he asked, following. "Can't take the heat, little bro?"

The lack of response from Twister set off further alarm bells in Lars, and he instantly dropped all desire to mock or pound Twister. Racing to catch up, Lars quickly overtook him, intent on stopping him. Twister just stubbornly turned in the opposite direction, and when Lars grabbed his shoulder, he got another one of those scrambling, halfhearted responses, as Twister shoved him off again.

"Twister. What is _wrong_ with you, dork?"

"Leave me the fuck alone."

Oh, that did it. Lars had heard his brother cry enough times to know that Twister was crying now, for the kid's voice was choked with tears. And these weren't just bleating tears from rough horseplay; no, this was quiet and scared. A bad type of hurt.

"Hey," Lars called, rushing to catch him again. "What's going on?"

"Go away."

"Nuh-uh," Lars grabbed him once more, and this time, he elected to be a little harsher, forcing Twister around to face him.

The last dredge of Lars' rivalry drained away, as he finally saw the tears, and the horrible look of confused, broken pain on Twister's face. The younger teen stopped fighting, and couldn't meet Lars' eyes. Right away, Lars also noticed a nasty, ugly bruise on the side of Twister's head, half hidden under his crew cut. There was also a distinctive mark on his cheek – a hand print, to be specific.

Anger pulsed through Lars, igniting his blood with hot rage. "Who the fuck hit you?" he demanded.

Twister held his silence, his gaze fixed despondently on some point beyond Lars. Lars studied him, eyes narrowed, trying to reach possible conclusions.

"Where are your dweeb friends?" he asked, shaking Twister's shoulders, albeit a little more gently than usual.

Score. The hurt increased at the mention of the Rocket Gang, and Lars knew something bad had happened between them. Ordinarily, he might not care about spats and fights between the younger kids, but as far as Lars was concerned, nobody, save him, had the right to physically hurt Twister. Not even Twister's friends. And to make the kid look like _this_, with resignation etched into his features? It was a criminal act that required response.

First, however, he had something else to tend to: Namely, the other look in Twister's eyes. This wasn't an emotional pain, but part of the head injury.

"What day is it?" he asked Twister.

"What?" came the puzzled, sniffled response.

"What day is it, Twister?"

"Saturday."

Error buzz. "It's Tuesday. Follow my finger a minute."

Twister batted his hand away irritably. "Leave me alone," he mumbled, trying to turn once more.

"No. Sit down, and follow my finger. _Now_."

He forced Twister to sit on a nearby rock, and Twister didn't bother fighting him anymore; wasn't even sure why they were fighting. Lars slowly moved his finger back and forth in front of Twister's eyes... and noticed there was a slight lack of tracking there. Twister wasn't just upset; he was confused.

"You're concussed," Lars concluded, disturbed. "How long you been walking like this?"

"I... I don't know."

"Tell me what happened."

"I hit my head."

"No duh. How?"

"I..." Twister frowned, sorting through his jumbled emotions and memories. "I messed up. They got mad."

Lars grew more and more furious. "Did Rocket Dork hit you?"

"No... I fell, I think. Then there was a rugby ball... I don't know."

Lars stood up straight, and began pacing in the sand. Twister watched him dully, tears still falling silently, while he fought the urge to lie down. He knew his friends were angry with him, and knew he felt terrible, but his mind – already simple, and now addled by his wound – couldn't grasp the situation anymore.

When he blinked, he saw that Lars had his phone out, and pressed to his ear. "Who are you calling?"

Lars didn't reply, but soon, whoever was on the other end picked up. "Pi. Bring your car down to the tide pool parking lot... dude, I don't care. I need your help. I need you to drive my little brother home..." he scowled murderously. "Just do it! I'll explain when you get here. This shit's serious."

There was no more garbled protest, and Lars hung up, before looking back around to Twister. He was _worried_; he admitted that, grudgingly. Twister looked distant, and tired, and more than a little pale. Lars moved back over to him, and began inspecting the swollen bruise on Twister's head. The boy hissed when he reached out and pried experimentally, but fell silent again soon after.

"Lars?"

"What?"

"I don't feel very good."

Lars cursed under his breath. "What, like... you feel sick?"

Twister didn't reply. The distant look worsened, and Lars stood by cautiously, uncertain. For a few minutes, they remained like this, with Lars casting glances back to the parking lot every few moments. During one such anxious survey, he felt Twister move, and when he looked back, his eyes widened. He only barely had time to jump out of the way, before Twister surged forward and threw up.

"Fuck," Lars muttered, catching him, as he nearly overbalanced off the rock.

Twister trembled under his hold, retching and coughing weakly. He was breathing hard, with more tears falling from the pain of being sick. A second time, he vomited, and this time, it was followed with a miserable cry.

"Easy," Lars said, his voice unusually gentle. "Here. Sit down in the sand, okay? And don't fucking pass out."

He coaxed Twister down, propping him up against the rock. Lars kept a careful eye on him after that, wishing he had brought a water bottle along. He'd only come out here to roll a joint, after all, and was unprepared for this. Fortunately, it wasn't long before a short series of horn blasts sounded across the beach, as Pi pulled into the parking lot.

"Okay. Come on," Lars prompted, hoisting Twister up under the arms. "Pi's gonna take you home."

"Why?" Twister slurred weakly.

"Because you're all messed up, and you gotta rest. Mom's home from work. Don't worry about telling her what happened – I'll call her. You let her take care of you, understand?"

Twister nodded, though Lars wasn't sure whether the message got through. He escorted Twister up the beach, to where Pi stood outside his car, looking confused.

"Dude, what happened to him?" Pi said nervously, as they came closer.

"Gonna go find out after this," Lars muttered darkly, as he opened the passenger door, and eased Twister into the seat. "Take him straight to my place. My mom will know what to do."

"Dude, I don't wanna get chewed out by your mom."

"She won't, okay?! She'll be freaked, but don't be a pussy. I'm counting on you for this – he's my little brother, dork or not. Got it?"

Pi considered another protest, but bit it back at once, as he saw the raw anger in Lars' face. Reluctantly, he got back behind the wheel, staring at Twister, who sat slumped against the door, with his eyes closed.

"Don't let him sleep," Lars cautioned through the window. "He's concussed. Now get moving."

Without further delay, Pi was off, driving a little more recklessly than necessary, for Lars' anxiety had rubbed off on him. Satisfied that Twister was safe enough, Lars pulled out his phone, fingers hesitating over the contact 'Home'.

…

The mood at the Shore Shack was sour. Even Tito knew better than to try to pry answers out of the three gloomy, annoyed teenagers at the table, and he had to stop Ray and Noelani from doing the same.

"Give them time to try to eat," Tito said quietly to them, out of hearing of the teens. "And to cool their heads."

"Reggie looks ready to cry, Tito," Noelani protested. "And where is Twister? Something's really wrong."

"I know. Just give them a little while."

"They're not even eating," Ray countered.

"True, but better to have it there as comfort, than nothing at all."

The adults continued watching anxiously, and the trio stalwartly ignored them. Not a word passed between the friends, though the atmosphere was heavy and tense with unspoken anxieties.

Which made it all the worse, when Lars Rodriguez strolled in.

Lars made directly for their table, on a beeline. His face was stony, betraying no expression, but there was a dark, dangerous fury glinting in his eyes – a look that worsened when he set eyes on Otto, in particular. Ray, Noelani and Tito, sensing trouble, carefully came out from behind the counter, lingering with warning, but Lars paid them no heed.

He pulled out a chair from the table roughly, startling the trio, but before they could register whom was in their midst, he had already seated himself down, directly across from them. Without missing a beat, he grabbed Otto's chili fries, planting them in front of himself, and began eating them. He stared unblinkingly as he did, keeping that strange, frightening calm.

"What the hell, Lars?!" Otto demanded, with a touch of hesitation.

Lars bit down on another fry. He chewed thoughtfully, then swallowed, leaning forward ever so slightly, to regard Otto with that vicious glare. All three teens leaned away from Lars nervously, but he didn't budge – yet.

"Why was Twister stumbling down the beach with a lump on his head, Rocket Dork?"

A terrible silence followed. All eyes were on Lars, who bit into another one of Otto's fries, waiting for an answer. Slowly, reality dawned on Otto, and he gulped.

"Look-"

"Nah, lemme rephrase that," Lars immediately interrupted. "How about this, dipshit: What the _fuck_ did you do to my little brother?"

Otto scowled, recovering. "So he came bitching to you because he couldn't handle taking responsibility for his fuck-up?"

"Otto, language!" Ray warned angrily.

"I'm looking for answers," Lars went on, as if neither Ray nor Otto had spoken. "If you don't wanna give them, that's fine. I'm gonna find my own conclusions, and I'm gonna beat five-hundred kinds of shit out of you anyway."

"Watch yourself, Lars," Ray snapped.

"We argued," Otto blurted his answer, increasingly disturbed by the seriousness of Lars' threat. "He messed up the Zine ads by a whole month. It was another one of his stupid mistakes, _again_. Reg already has too much stuff going on without Twister ruining everything."

He had pulled his own sibling card in defense – but Reggie was having none of it. She still felt the sting on her palm, and wondered at Lars' claim that Twister had some kind of bruise on his head. She knew she couldn't possibly have hit him that hard, even if it was a violent attack.

"What did you do, Otto?" Reggie asked quietly.

Otto stared at her, betrayed. "Hey, I was looking out for you!"

"Queen Dork asked you a question," Lars put in, sounding almost civil. "So answer."

"Lars, that's enough," Ray approached the table, seeing all too well the barely-contained violence lurking within Lars. "You need to leave, right now."

"I'm not going anywhere until I get some answers. Twister has a _concussion_. He was_ puking_ from it. I found him, walking around and crying, and he couldn't tell me what day it was, or what the hell had happened... except that he fought with _you_," he glared right through Otto.

Ray's eyes grew wide with shock, and he wheeled around on Otto, who had turned pale. "Is this true, Otto? You _hit_ Twister?!"

"I didn't hit him!" Otto defended.

"You did push him," Sam put in miserably, sinking down in his chair. "And he _did_ hit his head on the ground when he fell."

"Sammy!"

"I'm not lying over this," Sam countered. "A concussion is serious, Otto."

"It was just a little push," Otto went on desperately, looking to Reggie now. "I was mad, okay? I'm sorry. I didn't do it to hurt him or anything."

"You made him hit his head," Reggie answered, sorrow in her eyes.

"Well! You're the one who slapped him."

Lars' beady eye was drawn to Reggie. "You slapped my brother? That why there's a big-ass hand print on his face?"

"Yes," Reggie said at once. "And I wish I hadn't. I'm sorry. And when Twister's feeling better, I want apologize to him, too."

She gave no excuses; made no attempt to shrink away from Lars any longer. She met his gaze, not with defiance or fear, but with acceptance. Responsibility: The picture of Reggie Rocket. Lars read her, right through to her core, and saw her regrets. And, in the seat of judgment, he deemed her 'let off with a warning', before he returned his attention to Otto.


	66. Chapter 65

The last thing Twister wanted to do today was head to school. From the moment he woke up, he felt tired – as if he hadn't gained any rest at all last night, despite an early retirement to bed. His stomach protested every movement, and his head felt odd. He said as much to his mother, as he stumbled down the stairs for breakfast.

Sandy checked her son's forehead absently, as she set a plate of eggs and toast down in front of him. "You're a little warm," she confirmed. "But you've missed so many days already, mi hijo. I don't want you in summer classes again this year. Will you try to go to school? If you feel worse, you can always come home."

Twister sighed, resigning. He knew his record of attendance wasn't fantastic, especially when it was paired with his detentions. Once upon a forever ago, it wouldn't have mattered so much, but in high school, things were different. He'd learned that when Otto, of all people, began to lay into him about his school performance. Not Reggie, with her million extracurricular activities; not Sam, with his perfect scores. Otto.

Every day, he felt like he was falling further and further behind. He did well in areas like art or A/V club, but beyond that, his grades were terrible, particularly in math and science. His teachers constantly drove at him for this, as did his parents and friends, but no matter how many times Twister tried to catch up, he found himself at a loss, over and over. Hundreds of late-night studies became useless, while lunches and breaks were skipped for punishment or yet more studying.

He wondered if that wasn't half the reason he felt so awful today. The idea of fruitlessly struggling, yet again, made the ache in his stomach worsen, and he found himself put off his breakfast. He set down his fork with another sigh, and got up to get ready.

By the time he'd geared up and set his longboard down to ride to school, he felt worse. His fingers fumbled with the straps of his helmet, and he couldn't focus long enough to get himself to stop shaking. He was so caught up in the effort that he didn't notice his friends skate up to him, until Otto – having received no response to his call – loudly clapped his hands in front of Twister's face.

Twister startled back, annoyed, as his ears ached at the sound. "Don't."

"Dude, we shouted like, five times!" Otto insisted. "Quit spacing out."

"Uh-huh."

Reggie frowned, noticing that Twister seemed a little pale. "You okay, Twist?"

"Huh?"

"Are you okay? You don't look so good."

Twister shrugged. "My mom said I can't miss another day."

"She's right," Sam agreed, before Twister glared at him. "I mean... uh, it's probably not a good idea to go to school sick. But you _do_ need the credits."

"Yeah, like it'll make any difference," Twister snapped back, gloom settling over him.

"It _does_ make a difference," Reggie countered sternly. "How do you expect to get into college with your grades?"

Twister didn't reply, setting his foot on his board, and rolling past them. He didn't know how to tell anyone that he not only disliked the idea of college, but also didn't really expect to get into one, regardless. Now that he was seventeen, people around him were constantly prompting him about where he wanted to go, what he wanted to study, or how he wanted to prepare. And each time he had to go to the mandatory college counselor sessions, he kept his answers vague.

Behind him, the others donned their helmets and moved to catch up, but not before they traded worried looks. Twister didn't know it, but they'd noticed his unusually negative outlook on the subject of more schooling. At first, they'd chalked it up to Twister being Twister – it was a given that he hated school, and would mope about it. But as the days drew on, and he slid slowly backwards, they could no longer attribute it to some childish whim of his.

They didn't know how to approach him with it, however, and as they boarded to school with him, they resorted to idle chat instead, discussing projects or homework. Twister gradually lost speed at this, put out by the topic, until he was lingering behind even Sam. At the front of the school, while his friends leaped off their boards and rushed in to greet familiar peers, Twister stopped.

It was another thing he'd noticed: The way the gang all seemed to have stronger connections to other friends now. Reggie was almost constantly talking to Sherry and Trish, while Sam had the attention of Oliver's crowd. Otto, too, kept to the athletics teams, making fast friends with Trent and others.

And then there was Twister.

Twister got off his board, and stared after his friends – his _only _friends – as they left him behind. He knew they still liked him, and of course, the gang was still hanging out, after school. But Twister was alone whenever he passed through these doors, and it made his chest ache. This agitated his upset stomach, and he leaned heavily on the wall outside the entry, trying to fight the strange and sudden urge to lie down.

It was reputation, he decided. People shunned Eddie because he was a hardcore stoner these days, and who could blame them? But they also avoided Twister, because he couldn't add anything to the mix. They were always smarter, or faster, or more connected. Even when the others brought him along to talk with their friends, Twister found himself in silence, or cut out altogether.

Glumly, he dwelled on this, as he finally mustered up the nerve to enter the building. Already, he felt himself grow irritable and almost scared by the throng of loud teenagers around him, and he held his board close to his chest tightly, as if it might protect him from them. He was jostled around by the moving tide, and he suddenly found he was thankful that he hadn't tried to eat yet today.

His first class was English, with Ms. Baylor. Ordinarily, the dread he felt about it would have been tempered somewhat by the presence of Otto, but given that Otto had ditched him, he didn't feel better for this. On top of his anxiety about the class, and the illness, Twister knew he was going to be in for a rough time today.

He found his seat, not looking at his best friend as he settled in next to him. Otto mistook Twister's depressed look for mere irritation at the class, and chuckled, nudging him with an elbow.

"Did you do the homework?" he asked.

Homework? Twister paled. He'd forgotten, _again_. "Fuck."

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that," Ms. Baylor called, as she entered the room, prompting the class into stillness.

Twister's heart began to race, as he watched her march to the front of the class. She took her time unpacking her supplies from her bag, but it was clear she was merely teasing out the tension – there would be a few who hadn't done their homework. What had it been again? Twister tried to recall, but found his mind in a haze.

The fog lasted throughout Baylor's greeting and introduction. He was tired; overwhelmingly tired. He couldn't quite catch all the words and motions, though he was dimly aware that Baylor had somehow teleported across the room, and was now collecting papers – papers that students had laid out on their desks without Twister's realizing it.

He fumbled in his pack, hoping he'd be able to at least present the homework, even if he hadn't done it. As with his helmet earlier this morning, his fingers wouldn't quite respond, and he felt hot and claustrophobic, his skin and mouth going dry. There was some sound near him, but he couldn't really process this, either, until one impatient hand slapped down on top of his desk, snapping him back to reality a little.

"Have you contracted temporary deafness, Maurice?" Baylor asked wryly.

A small wave of giggles bubbled up from some of the students. Twister blinked, trying to clear some of the heaviness from his eyes. "What?"

"I asked you where your homework was."

"Oh. I, um... I-"

"Wait, don't tell me: You forgot?"

"Yeah."

Baylor heaved an irritated sigh. "That's the fifth time this month, Maurice. And another detention, as a result."

"I'm sorry," Twister mumbled sincerely.

She began scolding him, but her voice faded out, and he was left staring up at her, watching her lips move, while all sound cut out. Her face seemed to swim, and suddenly, Twister found he couldn't move. It was as if he had become trapped inside a statue, and the longer he went without being able to command his muscles, the more his fear grew.

Sound shot back into existence, and he found Baylor's patience was growing thin.

"-even now, you aren't paying attention!" she snapped. "I think it's time for you to stand up front, Maurice."

Stand? Twister wasn't sure this was possible. Sure, he'd got some feeling and movement back, but standing was beyond him. He made no move to rise, and the longer he sat there, the more the whispers of his peers grew, as they watched his apparent act of defiance with increasing interest. Baylor stalked back to her desk – to do what, Twister wasn't sure. She was grabbing papers with short, irritable movements, and he knew he was in trouble.

Someone backhanded his shoulder lightly, and Twister managed to see Otto, giving him an incredulous look. "What the hell are you doing, dude?" he hissed.

Twister tried to reply, but his jaw and tongue refused the attempt. Otto said something else, but the wing of silence was back in motion, and Twister's gaze fell to his desk, blinking, as he saw that Baylor had done that teleporting business again. There was a paper on his desk, and a pen in his immobile hand. How had they gotten there?

He felt it before it hit him – a weird, painful sensation, slowly surging through his whole body. He suddenly knew he had to lie down, right there and then, and damn the consequences. He struggled to say as much, but the only sound that came was a short, incomprehensible grunt. The class laughed, his arm twitched – and that was all he knew, before the world stopped altogether.

Otto saw that twitch of his friend's arm, and it sent a bolt of warning through his brain, before – a split second later – Twister gave a horrible, choking cry. He slumped in his seat as his limbs went rigid, and the motion of his arms became a series of uncontrollable spasms, while his back locked and arched. What began as one cry grew into a repetitive, moaning stutter, and his desk jolted with his convulsing.

Baylor and Otto both moved at the same moment. Around them, students' confused entertainment turned slowly to horror, as it dawned on them that Twister was not merely doing all of this for his own weird reasons. He was in the middle of a full-blown, tonic-clonic seizure, and had Baylor and Otto not caught him, he'd have fallen right out of his desk.

Baylor pried the pen out of Twister's hand. "All of you, move these desks, now!" she barked at the students nearby. "NOW! Get out of the way!"

People scrambled to obey, quickly clearing a space, while Otto gripped his friend's shoulders, and helped Baylor lower him safely to the ground.

"Don't grip him too tightly," Baylor cautioned. "Just protect his head from the floor, like so."

"What's happening to him?" Otto asked, his voice tight with fear.

"He's having a seizure. Patricia," she called to the side, "Will you please dial the office and have them send a nurse right away?"

Trish, having kept her reputation over the years as a more level-headed person than your average soul, made a beeline for Baylor's desk, where the phone waited.

"I don't understand, why is he having a seizure?" Otto demanded, as he kept his hands under Twister's head. "He's never had shit like this before!"

"The nurse will be able to explain," Baylor said gently, watching Twister with a keen eye, while he continued to convulse. "Speak with him."

"Can he even hear anything?" Otto asked, looking uneasily at the way Twister's eyes – still open – showed only vacant nothingness. "Can... can he see us?"

"I don't think so, but sometimes people can hear others. Talk to him. Try to reassure him."

Otto swallowed his fear. "Twist? Twister," he called, over Twister's continuing groaning. "Twister, dude, it's... it's me. It's Otto. You're gonna be alright, buddy," he paused, glancing at Baylor, who nodded encouragement. "There's a nurse coming to help, okay? You're gonna be okay."

For several minutes, Otto babbled away like this, still supporting Twister's head off the floor. The seizure progressed indifferently, and thick, foaming spit spilled from the boy's mouth, and Baylor wiped it carefully away. Students crowded around, staring in disturbed silence, and only when Twister's convulsions died down, did they begin to speculate amongst themselves.

Otto wanted to jump up and laugh hysterically when the majority of those horrible motions stopped, and Twister's eyes fluttered closed. He stopped talking, waiting anxiously, and keeping hold of Twister, while the boy began giving an unsteady series of snores.

"Maurice?" Baylor called, her fingers reaching for his pulse. "Maurice, can you hear me?"

Twister didn't respond to this until Baylor had repeated the call a few times. His eyes slowly opened again, and Otto saw the light had returned. Twister was confused, disoriented, and utterly exhausted, yes, but he was _back_.

"Hey, dude," Otto said shakily. "You okay?"

Twister managed to focus on him momentarily, and he tried to raise his head, but had no strength to do so.

"Don't move," Baylor instructed to him, speaking slowly and clearly. "Everything is okay, Maurice. Just try to relax."

Twister licked his lips, and was clearly trying to say something. He either ignored, or couldn't process, the order he was just given, and began shifting weakly. Both Baylor and Otto had to repeat the instruction a few times more, until Twister gave up, and lay breathing hard, spent from his struggle. Otto noticed then that there was dampness on the floor under Twister, and a stain on the front of his pants.

"Ms. Baylor?" he said quietly. "He, uh... I think he peed."

"I know," Baylor answered, grimacing. "Unfortunately, that can happen. Don't worry too much."

"Otto?" came a sudden, hoarse whisper.

Otto looked down, and saw Twister staring up at him again. "Hey. You back with us, man?"

"'happened?"

"You had a seizure," Otto replied, his throat closing on the last word. "Scared the shit out of me, bro. You okay? How do you feel?"

"'m tired."

"No kidding. Don't worry, dude – you'll probably get the whole week off after this."

Twister gave on a weak sigh in response, shutting his eyes again. He nearly appeared to be asleep, but when the nurse and a pair of her assistants finally came rocketing into the room, the commotion roused him a little – as did the sea of questions, prompts, prods and pokes they unleashed on him.

Eventually, they managed to get Twister to sit up, and the assistants were carefully easing him off the ground between them, to escort him to the infirmary. The nurse led the way, but not before she grabbed Otto along for the ride, with Baylor's blessing. The official reason was so Otto could explain the event in more detail, but unofficially, the nurse knew the boys were friends, and knew Otto didn't much like the idea of separating from Twister just now.

…

Waiting was one of the worst parts of any place of medical practice, and the Rocket Gang hated every second of it. So when Nurse Fields finally entered the little waiting area, with its two-and-a-half chairs, the three friends stood as one, anxiously clustering near. Fields examined them critically for a moment, deep in thought, as a furrowed frown occupied her brow. They waited, tense with anticipation.

Finally, Fields said, "Stress."

They blinked. "Stress?" Reggie repeated, voicing the group's puzzlement.

"Stress. And all the fatigue and hurt that follows. To understate it by about a mile: Maurice is overworked and burned out," Fields paused. "I've seen some severe cases in my time, but they don't hold a candle to this. It's a wonder he hasn't manifested any illness before now, with what he's told me."

"You're saying he had a seizure because he's _stressed?!_" Otto said incredulously.

"It's not common, but it can happen, yes. They're called psychogenic non-epileptic seizures. Which, in people-speak, means a seizure triggered by severe psychological problems."

"Are you sure it's not something else? Like, it's not brain damage, right?"

"It's not brain damage, but he _is_ very sick. Stress can rip the body apart, just as easily as any illness or injury can. In Maurice's case, it manifested as a seizure. He's also picking up some flu-like symptoms, including a fever."

"Poor Twister..." Reggie said softly. "But... what can be done about it? How do we help him?"

Fields sighed. "Well, in the short-term, he needs to go home and rest. In the longer term, he may need to speak with a counselor or a therapist. As for how you can help... as far as I can see, you three are his closest friends. He'll do better with love and support from you."

"Can we see him?" Sam asked.

Fields hesitated. "He's sleeping right now. You can go in if you promise to be _quiet_, and not to disturb him. He needs to rest, badly."

They promised silence, and eventually, Fields conceded, and led them into the infirmary proper, then to the examination room Twister had been given, to separate him from the general noise of the regular beds. This room was dark, save for a dim blue light near the sink and cupboards. Fields held a stern finger to her lips, holding the door, while the three teens entered, and stopped.

Twister lay on the bed, curled up on his side, and covered in a light blanket. They could hear his breathing, unsteady with the rhythm of someone asleep, but suffering; he was shivering, and every so often, he gave a weak, pitiful moan, and tried to bury himself deeper into the blanket and pillow he lay with.

He looked terrible. The seizure had certainly taken a lot out of him, but it was not the seizure alone that gave him his awful appearance. Aside from the deep flush of fever in his cheeks, there was no color in his face, and deep, dark circles lay under his eyes. He was a naturally thin guy, even with the toned muscles of someone who was a regular sportsman, but he looked a little too thin now – thin, like he was ill.

Fields gave a soft, sympathetic tut. "He's cold. I'm going to find him some more blankets," she whispered. "Not a sound, from any of you. I'll be right back."


	67. Chapter 66

Reggie gave a good-natured chuckle, as Sam emerged from the water, spitting a fountain as he went. His board bobbed up behind him, and he grasped it, looking world-weary.

"You were doing pretty good until the end," Reggie told him, grinning.

"I could have sworn I had it," Sam sighed.

"Nice beef, dude," Otto called, as he and Twister paddled for the next wave. "Let the pros show you how it's done!"

"Ten bucks says he just jinxed himself," Reggie muttered, rolling her eyes.

"Oh, god, not the J-word again," Sam groaned, as he climbed back onto his board. "I still can't believe we fell for that. Raymundo and Tito must've had a blast, though."

They laughed together, recalling fondly just how overboard Tito had gone in setting up the whole ordeal. Those were simpler times; times when they were a little more gullible.

"Speaking of falling for anything," Sam said, his smile fading a little, "I heard you and Otto went aggro at Cynthia Wheeler."

Reggie scowled at the name, her mood souring instantly. "If I ever see that stupid little witch go near him again, she is in _so_ much trouble."

"Okay, but... what actually happened? All I heard was that she tried to trick Twister into something."

"She was trying to coerce him into having sex with her," Reggie spat.

Sam stared, wide-eyed. "What, like...?"

"He only figured out what was going on while she was in the middle of groping him in the gym storage. What she didn't know was that Otto and I were supposed to be in there trying to sort the volleyball supplies. We walked in on them, and specifically heard him tell her he didn't want it."

"But she kept going?!"

"She kept going. Ugh!" Reggie kicked at the water moodily, casting a worried look to Twister. "It's really lucky we were there. I don't think he would've known how to get out of that situation, and then she would have just..."

Sam grimaced. "How badly did she hurt him?"

Reggie blinked, frowning at him. "She didn't, fortunately."

"But... his bandages?"

"Oh, his wrist? He said he and Lars were roughhousing, and ended up burning his arm."

"Man. It really hasn't been a good week for him, has it?"

"Nope. Sometimes I wonder how he manages to get by."

Sam managed a light chuckle, in spite of the severity of the topic. "He's our Twister. A clueless, brainless, walking miracle."

That brought a little of Reggie's cheer back, though Sam noticed the worry hadn't quite left her eyes. He decided to distract her by leading the way into the next wave with the other guys, only to find himself a little in over his head – quite literally. When he next surfaced, he came up next to Twister, who was grinning ear to ear at him.

"Not another word," Sam grumbled at him, splashing him.

Twister only giggled harder, but as the water hit him, he winced and hissed. He'd been careful thus far to keep his arm as dry as possible, but the sea water came in, all the same.

"Shoot, Twist, I'm sorry," Sam said quickly. "I forgot."

"It's okay, man," Twister mumbled back, avoiding his eye with a sheepish grin. "I heard the sea water was good for cuts anyways."

Sam frowned. "I thought you said you got burned?"

Twister gave him a deer-in-the-headlights look. "Uhhhh, yeah. That's what I meant," he said, a little too quickly, before he turned his board inland a little. "Boy, I'm sure hungry after that. Let's eat!"

"Dude, we just ate like an hour ago!" Otto complained at him, as he and Reggie paddled closer.

"W-well, I'm hungry again! You guys keep surfing, I'm gonna, uh, grab a bite real quick."

Twister paddled away, the motion awkward, since he kept most of his bandaged arm out of the water. Behind him, his three friends crowded together on their boards, staring after him, perplexed.

"Twister is in Hide Mode," Sam told the siblings.

"Hide Mode?" Otto asked.

"That behavior he shows, when he's trying to hide something? Hide Mode. Though with him, it's like an ostrich sticking its head in the dirt."

"Did you guys argue or something?" Reggie asked Sam.

"No... but he said something odd," Sam answered distantly, still watching Twister, with a look of troubled concentration. "I forgot about his bandages and splashed him a little, and he said he'd heard sea water was good for cuts. When I asked him about _that_, he changed the subject."

"I don't like the sound of that... I wonder if he got hurt worse than he's saying?"

…

"Hey," Reggie slid into the seat across from Twister, her voice unusually gentle. "Twist."

"I said I don't wanna talk about it," Twister mumbled, fidgeting, his hand tightly covering his now-exposed wrist.

"How come?"

"Because... because I did a bad thing," Twister hung his head, ashamed.

Behind them, hovering nearby, Sam and Otto exchanged dark looks. They didn't press forward, however, for they were both uncertain how to approach their friend with something like this. Their trust was in Reggie, who – being the oldest of the group, and always the Big Sister in all matters – seemed to know a little more about what she was doing.

In truth, Reggie was terrified. She knew, in her bones, that Twister wasn't well. She didn't want to know it; she wanted him to keep being the same, silly Twister, who was utterly dim-witted, but had a wonderful and warm heart. The innocent Twister – the one for whom it would never have occurred, to do something like this.

"What bad thing did you do?" Reggie prompted him. "Are you talking about these?"

She gestured to his arm, and he flinched away a little, before he nodded reluctantly.

"People aren't supposed to do that," Twister said quietly, in anguish.

"Do you know why you made them?"

Twister swallowed, and for a moment, Reggie felt her heart tug painfully, as she saw he was fighting not to cry. "I don't feel good, Reg," he whimpered. "I'm sorry. I know they look scary, but they didn't bleed that much... I just wanted to feel better."

"I know," Reggie said quickly, her voice shaking. She reached out and took his hands, not pulling them away, but offering comfort. "I know, sweetie. I'm sorry you don't feel good. But we're gonna help you, okay?"

Twister looked puzzled and doubtful. "How? I'm gonna die."

That statement made Reggie's blood turn to ice. "What makes you say that?" she asked carefully.

"That's what I heard happens to lots of people who do this... they... they kill themselves."

"Do you _want_ to kill yourself, Twister?"

"No... I mean, not really? I don't know. I don't really feel like living anymore. I don't really wanna die, but I don't wanna live, either."

Sam wheezed, and scrambled for his inhaler, while Otto seemed frozen, like a statue. Reggie was in a full battle trying not to break down, there and then, as she read the truth of the statement in Twister's eyes: He was dejected. Tired. Done.


	68. Chapter 67

"Class. Today, I'd like to welcome back into our midst a certain former delinquent. As you all know, he's been serving the community for the past six months. Sam, Reggie, Otto – I expect you three to bring him up to speed on the subjects he's missed, but don't worry too much about the catch-up work, okay?"

The trio offered a thumbs-up to Conroy, though their smiles were a little forced. In the agonies of the teenage years, six months is a lifetime – a span of time in which far too much can occur, and in which change is constant. They had missed Twister, certainly... but, without him, they'd already moved on with their daily lives, adapting as they went. New bonds were formed; new cliques and activities.

So when Twister walked into the room, his eyes downcast, they weren't sure what to make of him. He still wore the same style of clothes he had when they'd last seen him, all that long while ago, or in those rare times when his service forced him into the open, though now, he lacked the orange and yellow vest. He still sported his crew cut, and still had the muscles that defined him as an athlete.

Yet, that was all that seemed the same about him, because the Twister they had known would never have entered the way he did, with those eyes full of tired resignation, and something not unlike a deep and persistent fear. He seemed thinner and paler somehow, too, like his soul had been hollowed out, which left an impact on his body.

They had heard his punishment had been harsh, but the stories so far had only been rumors, and no one in authority had sought to question, for the vandalism of a graveyard was no light matter. Six months into it, however, new light and new evidence was given to suggest that Twister had no part in the vandalism; like his brother before him, so many years ago, he'd merely been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Twister found his seat, amidst whispers and stares. He looked no one in the eye, and walked with a jumpy tension, as if any one of his classmates might jump out at him, at any given moment. The vacant desk he took was next to Reggie, and she, too, studied him, as he slid into his chair. She noticed he had a constant tremor in his left hand, which didn't match what the rest of his body was doing.

Conroy moved forward with the lesson, though he, too, was distracted from time to time by Twister's appearance. Twister gave no indication that he noticed much of the scrutiny, though when the class began taking notes on the lecture, he didn't follow suit, sitting stiff as a statue, with his desk bare.

Reggie decided to break the ice a little, and tore off a blank page from her notebook, before fishing out a spare pen. "Here," she whispered to Twister.

He startled, drawing in a sharp breath, as Reggie set the objects on Twister's desk. She frowned at the response, and when she looked up, she saw him staring at her, that undercurrent of fear rising to the surface.

"You okay?" Reggie asked him hesitantly.

He didn't reply, glancing away, and Reggie didn't press the matter, even though Twister didn't pick up the pen, or write anything down, the whole class.

When the bell bade them all to move on to their lunch break, the Rocket trio dutifully walked with Twister – though, it was more like walking with a shadow than anything else. A painfully heavy silence lasted between them, alongside a certain small distance, that told everyone looking at the group that Twister didn't quite belong anymore.

"So, Twister," Reggie tried, hoping to rebuild a bridge, "You might like next class. There won't be any lecture – Mr. Obara has a guest speaker from Alaska, and she's bringing in some working dogs. Should be fun – no work, huh?"

"I'll work," Twister blurted.

The three teens stared at him. The response had been automatic, like he was programmed to say it. Most unlike a robot, however, Twister had said it with that same underlying fear in him, and a submissiveness that disturbed them. They all exchanged looks, unsure what to do with this.

Lunch was an unusual affair, as well. They all wanted to sit with their other friends, but the presence of Twister made things incredibly awkward, and he didn't seem inclined to go up and get his own lunch, instead following them around, silently, like an obedient pet.

"Maybe you should get something to eat," Sam suggested, squinting at Twister, who sat across from them, as still as ever. Experimentally, Sam pointed across the cafeteria. "You can get food over there."

When Twister didn't get up, or indicate he'd heard Sam, Sam's suspicions grew. Setting his sandwich down, he leaned in a little, catching Twister's eye, and pointed again.

"Go get lunch," he ordered, not unkindly, but with a tone of command. "You can eat anything you want, but come back with your tray full. Understand?"

Twister stood up almost immediately, and made his way across the cafeteria. Reggie gave Sam a reproachful frown.

"You didn't need to be so rude to him, Sammy," she said.

"I wasn't being rude," Sam murmured, eyeing Twister, as the boy lined up for food. "He didn't understand that lunch is his choice to make."

"What, you mean like, he needed permission?" Otto chuckled disbelievingly.

"Yes, that's exactly what I mean. He's been operating under strict rules for six months, guys. It's gonna take him awhile to get used to things the way they're supposed to be."

"It's gonna take _me _awhile to get used to him," Otto grumbled in response. "He's like a robot. It's weird."

"Yeah, you'd think he'd at least be happy to be out of the correctional facility," Reggie said.

"We should keep an eye on him," Sam said. "It's not unusual for him to be in shock at being back in a normal situation, but something's fishy about all of this. It's almost like he..."

"Like what?"

"...I don't know. I don't want to make any false conclusions, but he's got a lot of tics that suggest he might have suffered a lot in there."

"If he didn't want to suffer, he shouldn't have been in that graveyard," Otto shot back.

"Except it wasn't his fault," Reggie reminded him. "I _know_ you haven't forgotten the fire alarm incident, Otto."

Otto cringed, but before he could say any more, Twister returned, carrying his tray. It was full, alright, just as Sam had ordered, but when he sat down with them again, he made no move to eat. He looked confused, and extremely wary, keeping his hands as far from the food as possible.

"Eat your lunch, Twister," Sam encouraged gently.

That caution remained, as Twister slowly obeyed. His fear was obviously growing, and his trembling left hand meant he couldn't pick up anything with it. When he tried to hold his fork, he dropped it on the table, and again, he gave that same, sharp inhale and startle; the one Reggie had seen an hour ago. He froze in place, eyes wide.

"I'm sorry," he blurted.

"It's alright," Reggie reassured him, forcing a smile, though her warning instincts were lit up like a Christmas tree. "It was only an accident. Why don't you try with your other hand?"

He didn't move, his gaze darting between them uncertainly. There was a conflict in him, and suddenly, all three of them realized he was trying to process conflicting orders. What those orders were, they weren't sure, but it was stressing him – as if he knew that no matter what he did, he'd be punished for it.

"Hey, you're not in trouble," Sam said firmly. "Okay? You don't need permission to eat, or to eat in a certain way, or anything like that – you do whatever feels right to you. Got it?"

To their frustration, Twister obeyed by choosing not to eat. They gave up after that, trying to talk casually between themselves, while he continued to sit there, looking down at his tray.

They were relieved to hear the lunch bell call an end to this awkward torment, though that relief died a quick death, when they saw he still followed them afterward, his odd, zombie-like course leading him along. Otto pulled ahead a little with Reggie, while Sam, recognizing Otto's need to vent, hung back with Twister.

"Chill, Rocket Boy," Reggie warned.

"How can I be chill?" Otto hissed, scowling. "He's really weird now, Reg. I don't want to hang with him."

"It's not his fault. You heard Sam: He needs to get used to the idea of being able to live free again, and he's obviously been through a lot."

"Then he shouldn't be in school. We shouldn't have to deal with this. Why don't they hand him off to a counselor or something?!"

"I don't know. Maybe... maybe they should, or maybe they did. Honestly, I think it's a good idea to talk to the principal about this, but not right now. Let's give him a chance, okay? It's Twister."

"That's not Twister," Otto muttered darkly. "Twister was my goofy bud. This guy's a ghost."

"It's still him," Reggie said determinedly. "He's still in there, somewhere."

There was more silence between them, as they made their way to their next class. And it was here, in this room, with Mr. Obara and his guest speaker, that the reality of Twister's experience struck hard.

Already, the guest speaker, Danielle, had brought her dogs out of their kennels, and had them seated obediently. Students were crowding and chattering excitedly, and the trio got caught up in it, eager to see the big huskies. They left Twister behind, where he'd halted in the doorway.

"Everyone settle down," Mr. Obara called, clapping his hands for their attention. "Take your seats, please! There will be plenty of time to see the dogs."

Everyone scrambled to obey, impatient to start this unorthodox lesson. Obara smiled across the room... until he saw Twister, still standing in the doorway.

"Mr. Rodriguez?" Obara called, grin fading to a troubled frown. "Take your seat now, please."

Every head turned back, to see what the hold-up was. Twister hadn't moved, and still didn't. He was frozen there, the color drained from his face, and he was staring not at the dogs, but at the kennels near them. In the silence that followed, they could hear his breathing – short, ragged, and panicked. His hand shook badly at his side, too, while a sheen of cold sweat had formed on his forehead.

"Maurice?" Obara said, missing much of this from his distance, "I said take your seat."

Sam, Reggie and Otto looked at one another, alarmed, when Twister still didn't obey. Reggie made a move to get up, but as she did, one of the girls at the back of the class burst into a fit of nervous giggling.

"Mr. Obara!" she cried, "Maurice wet himself!"

There were a few more giggles, but they were overtaken by an uneasy murmur from those who were a little more attuned to the situation. Most of them could see something was terribly wrong – a fact that was compounded by the silent tears that suddenly fell down Twister's face.

Reggie and Obara moved at the same time, from different directions, intent on an intercept. For the third time that day, Reggie heard Twister take that sharp breath in, but this time, it was accompanied by a terrible, frightened moan. He took an unsteady step back from Obara.

"Maurice, are you ill?" Obara asked, alarmed.

"Mr. Obara, wait!" Reggie cried, holding up her hands. "He's scared."

Obara was clearly confused, but he halted, all the same, and Reggie continued her approach, going slowly, her hands still raised. Twister didn't look directly at her – for his gaze was still locked on those kennels – but she knew he saw her approach. The classroom fell dead-silent, watching this proceeding with apprehension.

"Twister?" Reggie called gently, coming close to him, "It's okay. It's only me. Can you try to take some deep breaths for me?"

He couldn't, she knew. He was trapped in his terror, his mind far from the present. She followed his field of vision, back to the kennels, and a horrible thought formed in her mind, about those rumors. The kennels were large, she thought – large enough to fit a teenage boy into, if someone truly wished. For a moment, she wondered where such an awful idea had come from, but then, she didn't really have to.

"Come on, Twist," she prompted, getting closer. "Let's step outside, okay? You don't have to be here."

"Will you take him to the nurse, please, Reggie?" Obara said with concern.

"Yeah. Come on, Twister. It's okay."

Twister wouldn't let her come close, but he seemed encouraged by the fact that he was moving away from the kennels. Reggie followed him out of the room, and Obara remained in the doorway, watching to make sure they were both alright, before he closed the door.

"Reggie?" Twister said, his voice hoarse.

"I'm here. What's up? Come on, let's keep going."

"Reggie, please, don't make me go in there," Twister begged her, finally looking her in the eye.

Reggie studied him hard. "Go in where?"

"I don't wanna sleep in them again. Please."

"Oh, Twister..."

"I didn't mean to be bad. I'll be good next time, I promise, just don't make me go."

"Hey," Reggie surged forward, taking hold of his shoulders firmly, which caused him to flinch, "Nobody's going to put you in a kennel, sweetie. Do you understand me?"

Twister was so tense in her hold, he might as well have been made of stone. He was still crying, searching her face, and she saw that he was looking for signs of malice and deception. It was the scariest thing she had ever witnessed, seeing the truth of his torments, written right there in his features. The rumors were not just rumors; they were an honest nightmare.

"Did someone make you do that before?" she asked carefully.

Twister's gained a haunted look. "I was bad. I have to go there when I'm bad."

"In the kennel?"

"They'll let me out when I'm good again, won't they?" Twister asked suddenly, his fear rising again. "Won't they, Reg? I promise I can be good."

Reggie shook as she took his arm, and began walking him down the hall, as quickly as she could manage. When she went too fast in her worry, Twister grew scared again, and she had to stop and calm him, ignoring the stares of passing students.

"Twist, I know you're frightened," she said to him, "But we have to get you some help, alright?"

"Help?"

"That's right. I'm taking you to the nurse, remember? They'll help you feel better."

Twister blinked, some of that hazy distance fading from him. He looked down at himself, perplexed, and turning pale with illness. "I had an accident."

Reggie grimaced, glancing at the stain on the front of his pants. "I know. It's okay. It's not your fault."

"Are they gonna pee on me?"

"Wh-what?"

"The nurses. Can we go somewhere else? I don't like it when they pee on me. I know I did bad, I shouldn't have made a mess. I'm sorry."

Taking some calming breaths, Reggie kept on prompting him, step by step. "They won't do that, Twister. That's really wrong."

"I'm sorry."

"No, sweetie, I mean that _they're_ wrong, whoever... whoever did that to you. You didn't do anything wrong."

It went this way all the long way to the nurse's office, with Reggie having to constantly reassure Twister that one torture or another wouldn't be inflicted on him. From his babbling and begging, she learned many things: That he'd been forced to sleep in kennels for days at a time. That people had urinated on him. That he'd been beaten with bats wrapped in barbed wire. That he'd had his head dunked in water. That he'd been starved and poisoned.

That, every night, he was raped.

So maybe she was crying, too, by the time she got him to safety. No one saw her on the way, so she told herself that it wasn't happening. But, in reality, her tears wouldn't stop, and neither would Twister's. That is how the nurses found them: Two teens, both in tears, standing side by side; one with a look of desperation on her face, and the other with piss staining his pants, and an unbalanced, broken shadow looming inside him.


	69. Chapter 68

"I don't want Twister on this team," Otto said quietly, while they waited for Trish and Trent to pick someone from the lineup.

Reggie frowned. "What? Why not?"

"Because we need actual _intelligence_ on this!" Otto snapped. "He's a dumbass."

Reggie stared now, wide-eyed. "He's also your best friend, Otto."

"Sure. That doesn't mean he's not a dumbass."

"It certainly doesn't mean you should be insulting him like that."

"You're up, Oliver!" Trish called out.

Otto and Reggie briefly halted their debate, to immediately and unanimously select Sam. Once Sam joined them, they resumed like nothing had happened, although Reggie didn't miss Twister's confused look.

"You know that Trent and Trish won't pick him," Reggie argued with her brother.

"Yeah, because they know he's stupid."

"Otto!"

"He is!"

Sam glanced between them. "This about Twister?" he cringed; he hated that his assumption went there so quickly.

"My glorious co-captain here doesn't think his _best friend_ should be on the team," Reggie told him.

"I mean... from a logical standpoint, he's kind of right-"

"Sammy. Not helpful."

"Sorry."

Otto scowled at both of them. "We're _not_ picking him. He'll understand."

"No, he won't, Otto. He knows people think he's not the brightest spark," said Reggie, "Which is why we're not gonna leave him behind. If he doesn't get picked, how do you think he's going to feel about that?"

"He's _Twister_. He gets excited seeing cat pictures and forgets everything. He'll get over it, Reg, I promise. And he can cheer us on!"

Reggie gave an exasperated groan, as Trent and Trish chose their next teammate. Inside, she was conflicted; she didn't want Twister to feel left out by the crew, but she had to admit, he wasn't a great asset to have in a game that required puzzle-solving and lightning calculation. It was this dueling doubt that made her hesitate, and Otto took full advantage of it, selecting Eddie as their next teammate.

The pool of candidates grew smaller and smaller, and still, Reggie didn't speak up. Otto was blinded by his own dreams of victory, but both Reggie and Sam could see Twister go from confused to upset, as he found himself among the few remaining stragglers. Upset turned to outright dejected, when, at long last, all others except him were chosen.

"Mr. Rodriguez," Darren called out, "Looks like you're our new scorekeeper... you _can_ count, I trust?"

A few students giggled at this barb, and Twister blushed with shame; well-known around the school was the fact that he struggled direly with mathematics. Science called it 'dyscalculia'; his peers called it 'idiot syndrome'. Regardless of what it was called, it only served to worsen the reminder that Twister didn't belong with games like these.

Unable to look at anyone, he made his way to Darren, who shoved the scorecard at him, and began loudly and slowly proclaiming the instructions to him. He stopped every few moments, speaking down to the boy, and asking if he understood. Twister said nothing at all, resigning himself to the stands, and sitting there like a statue.

"Dammit, Otto," Reggie sighed, looking over at Twister worriedly.

"He's fine!" Otto insisted, though doubt laced his voice, especially after the way Darren had treated his friend. "It'll be alright."

"Sounds like one of those things you say to convince yourself more than anyone else," Sam muttered.

There was little time for Otto to argue back, as the whistle blew. The game progressed, each side fighting with aggression. For the entire half-hour, Darren didn't just let Twister keep score; he kept that same, condescending tone, and called the points out to Twister, as if the boy would miss everything if he weren't controlled.

For Twister's part, he didn't bother filling in the card. He watched the game for awhile, without interest or feeling, before he spent much of the time looking down at his hands. He was trembling a little, something he fought to hide; he didn't want anyone thinking he was some weak-willed, sniveling kid. No, he was strong... he was strong, and that was all he was, he thought to himself.

He wasn't sure when he made the decision to leave, but he did know, quite suddenly, that he didn't want to be out here anymore. He didn't want to hear Darren's mocking, or see the looks in the eyes of the other students, as they whispered to one another and laughed at him. Resolved, Twister threw the scorecard aside, and rose up off the benches – just as Darren blew his whistle to call a break. Darren turned, presumably to taunt the score out of him, and frowned when he saw Twister stepping down out of the seats.

"And where do you think you're going, Rodriguez?" he demanded, causing all heads to turn.

Twister almost stopped; _almost_. There was something about Darren's tone that made him continue, regardless of consequences.

"Hey! I'm talking to you, Rodriguez. Do you understand what I'm asking, or do you need help? I do have the contact number for the special ed class, you know. They're well-experienced with retardation."

"Get fucked."

A shocked chorus of 'oohs' exploded around the onlooking students. Reggie, Sam and Otto all felt their jaws drop; they'd never heard Twister say something like that to someone before.

Darren turned a dark shade of maroon. "How _dare_ you! You turn back this instant, and apologize!"

Twister did stop then, but when he turned, there was no apology or fear in his face – just the same, tired humiliation, and now, traces of rage. "Get. _Fucked_," he spat, directly at Darren.

Darren was stunned, and Twister took that opportunity to continue his exit, stalking off the play pitch, with his hands stuffed into his pockets. The rest of the students missed the slight hunch in the boy's shoulders, but his friends didn't, and they knew they had erred.

…

Twister didn't show up for the next class, and rumors were scorching through the school, until the most ridiculous of them insisted that Twister was going to shoot the place up. At that point, the teachers began to get caught up in concerns, because nobody knew where Twister was. Darren had put out a call to the office to detain him for detention and possible suspension, but they couldn't very well tell a student he was suspended when he wasn't there to hear it.

In fact, he was nowhere near OSHS by that time, and had retreated to a safer place; an area he could think, without fear of interruption or more teasing from others.

The underside of the Pier had long since become a regular haunt for him in times of crisis, especially since he'd learned from Lars how to climb up into the rafters. Lars was no longer around, having taken off for college a year ago, but Twister remembered the way.

He wasn't crying. Even though there were tears silently rolling down his face, he refused to acknowledge them, just as he refused to parlay with the terrible, continuous ache in his chest. There was nothing to cry about; he knew that. He knew he wasn't terribly bright, and that other people often made fun of him for it. Nothing was different.

But it was. He gave up on that point, knowing that today was different because, at long last, his friends had turned him away because of his stupidity. Not even the cement incident at Mad Town had made them push him off. Push him around, yes. Get angry at him, absolutely. But refuse to play with him because he was foolish? They'd never done that before. He didn't know what had changed, but _something_ had, and he was certain it was permanent.

This knowledge made his tears run faster, and he sniffled, scowling and wiping at his face, to no avail. He was so caught up in his misery, he didn't notice the approaching footsteps, or the way those steps stopped almost directly underneath him.

"Hey, Twister-cuz."

The voice almost scared him right off the beam, but he held his balance, looking down in alarm, to see Tito staring right back.

"Hi Tito," Twister acknowledged weakly, glancing away, and cursing the hoarse break in his voice.

"Had a feeling I might find you here," Tito said casually, sitting down in the sand, against one of the posts.

Twister frowned. "How'd you know I was here?"

"A good hunch. And you come here every time you're not feeling good," Tito paused. "Got a call from the school asking if you were at the Shack. Wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Okay."

Wary puzzlement settled over Twister then; Tito simply remained sitting, and looked out over the ocean. He didn't speak, or try to yell at Twister for climbing the rafters. He didn't bring up details about the call, either, and didn't seem in any hurry to get the boy to talk.

Twister grew more and more restless as the silence dragged on, and he had to actively fight to try to stop his tears, embarrassed that Tito had caught him crying like this. Still, they wouldn't stop, and the ache felt worse, until it nearly drove him mad.

"I don't wanna go back to school," he blurted at last.

"Most teenagers don't," Tito replied at once, "But I get the feeling you got a bigger reason than hating boring classes."

Twister looked away, hugging his knees up to his chest. "They don't wanna hang out with me."

"Who? Not my little Rocket cuzes and Sammy?"

"It was just a stupid game," Twister muttered. "They were picking people who were smart, 'cause it was supposed to be about puzzles and stuff."

"And they didn't pick you, huh?"

"Nobody did."

Twister couldn't see Tito's face, for he was still watching the sea, but he swore the old fry cook stiffened a little where he sat. "So you got assigned instead of being picked?"

"No," Twister hid his head, as the ache bit at him. "Mr. Darren made me the scorekeeper. He asked me if I knew how to count, and then when I went to keep score, he kept telling me what was happening, like... like he knew I was too stupid to get it," Twister felt his voice break again. "He wasn't being nice. He did it so the other kids would laugh. And Otto and Reggie and Sam just... stayed there. They didn't say anything."

Newer tears came with greater ferocity, and Twister could not help the grimace of anguish that followed. He bit down on his arm, hard, to prevent himself from giving a pitiful cry, and shut his eyes, so that he couldn't see Tito standing up.

"Twister."

Twister held his place for what felt like an eternity. He could feel Tito watching him now.

"Hey. Twister," Tito's voice was gentle; so gentle. "Look at me."

It took an enormous strength of will for Twister to even raise his head to see Tito, and even then, he couldn't look Tito in the eyes. But he saw the compassion there; saw it blending with a troubled frown, and not a little anger. Twister tensed, until he realized the anger wasn't for him.

"Why don't you come on down?" Tito prompted. "I'm getting a neck-ache. We don't gotta go anywhere right away."

Twister shrunk back a little, reluctant to leave the safety of his makeshift perch.

"I'm not gonna start making fun of you, little cuz," Tito told him firmly, as if reading his mind. "That's a promise."

This was startling, but encouraging, and Twister found himself tempted by the idea. He didn't trust himself to speak just yet, so – after another long hesitation – he finally conceded, and climbed down nimbly. The moment his feet hit the sand, he found he couldn't look up at Tito. He stood there, instead, awkward, shy, and shaking.

He startled badly when arms seized him, and for a moment, he was convinced Tito had just grabbed him to haul him back to school. The hold, however, was kindly and caring, and Twister came to understand that Tito was hugging him.

It broke some barrier inside, and Twister clung back, just as abruptly. He didn't care that he'd started shaking with silent sobs, nor that he was gripping Tito like a lifeline. All he knew was that he was hurting, and Tito's presence was a healing one. For his part, Tito simply held on, rubbing circles over the boy's back, and wishing he knew a way to take away all of the pain.

…

"_There_ you are! Oye, Maurice, what have you done?!"

Twister cowered back as his mother entered the room. Tito set a comforting hand on the teen's shoulder, while Ray stood forward, intercepting Sandy Rodriguez, before she could dive into an epic-length scolding.

It had been two hours since Twister had made his unscheduled departure from school grounds, and he found he regretted allowing Tito and Ray to convince him to return. Here, in the principal's office, he sat like a centerpiece, feeling exposed under the scrutiny of all. Mrs. Hopkiss, the principal, was seated across from him, while Mr. Darren stood behind her, glowering almost hatefully at Twister. And nearby, in side chairs of their own, sat Sam, Reggie and Otto.

While Ray stepped out with Sandy, Hopkiss folded her hands on the desk, scrutinizing Twister and the other teens.

"This is a serious allegation," she said quietly.

"And a blatant falsehood," Darren snapped.

Otto scowled at this. "Yeah, well, you would say that, wouldn't you?"

* * *

_AN: I'm aware there was an episode similar to this featuring Sam. Don't care. Want one featuring Twister, close enough._


	70. Chapter 69

"Hey, girlfriend! What's up?"

Reggie only returned Sherry and Trish's wave halfheartedly. She was distracted, scanning the various crowds of students for signs of her friend.

"Hello?" Sherry walked up to her, waving a hand in front of her face. "Earth to Reg. You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Reggie dismissed. "Um, you two haven't seen Twister around, have you?"

"Twist?" Trish frowned. "No, haven't seen him-"

"Oh, I have!" Sherry said enthusiastically, before she paused, her smile dropping. "He was out by the theater building..."

"Okay, thank you!" Reggie said, dashing away.

"Hey, wait up! Reggie! Hold on a second."

There was an urgency and nervousness in Sherry's voice that puzzled both Reggie and Trish. Reggie stopped, and both of them looked at her, waiting.

"We should go with you," Sherry said, hesitating. "Um... Twister wasn't alone."

"What do you mean?"

"Well... he was kind of... with some guys... actually, he was with Josh and Eric and their crew. And it's more like they were with him. It didn't look too friendly."

Reggie paled. "Oh, no..."

"What is it?" Trish asked, glancing back and forth between them.

Reggie began to rush off again, and after a moment, Trish and Sherry caught up, weaving between the crowds, as she made her way to the theater building. They called after her, over and over, but it was clear she wasn't going to respond any time soon. She appeared more and more worried as time passed, her steps quickening, until they all found themselves sprinting.

It only became clear why when they reached the path to the remote theater building. Here – clear of the noise of the throngs – they could hear shouting and harsh, barking laughter. Sherry and Trish lost some of their confusion, and kept better pace with Reggie, as she led them up the path.

They skidded to a halt as they finally came within view of the building.

Josh Grody and Eric Golem were there, alright; they and a band of four other guys. They were the source of the commotion, crowing and whooping like a band of hyenas, as they surrounded a seventh figure.

Twister was being held on his knees, right in the middle of the pack, and_ held_ truly was the operative word: He looked barely able to keep himself up, bearing a bloody nose and already-swelling bruises all over his face. His shirt had been torn off, exposing his equally-battered chest, and while two of his attackers firmly held onto his arms, Eric Golem paced before Twister, sneering and grinning.

He lunged at Twister with a harsh fist, burying his strike into the boy's gut. Twister grunted in pain, doubling over, but was merely held up further, so that he was given no time to recover, before the second strike followed. Twister's head dropped to his chest, until Eric reached out and gripped him by the hair, forcing him to look up.

When he spat in Twister's face, all three girls were broken out of their shocked reverie.

"HEY!" Reggie snarled, charging. "Leave him ALONE!"

For anyone else, it might have been foolish, to attempt such an assault against a party of six. The trio weren't too terribly outnumbered the way Twister had been, however, and their reputations preceded them: Tough, athletic girls, one and all, and most certainly gifted with the element of surprise in this engagement.

Three of the boys, including Eric, turned tail and fled almost at once. The pair holding Twister dropped their catch, shoving him into the dirt, but remained with Josh, uncertain and nervous, but determined to fight.

Reggie, Trish and Sherry dispelled them of this notion quickly, rushing them like a team of wild women. The boys gave ground instantly, as they were met with flying fists, curses, and feral faces. Josh himself screeched as he scrambled away, his goons in tow, and Trish chuckled, exchanging a high-five with Sherry, before turning to Reggie to do the same.

Reggie wasn't there. As soon as she saw that Twister's attackers were gone, she wheeled right back around, and bolted to his side, sliding to her knees in the dust. Twister lay sprawled where he'd fallen, his whole body trembling, while he took shallow, uneven breaths. His eyes were barely open, and unfocused, and he didn't seem to register Reggie, as she pressed her fingers to his pulse.

"Twister?" she called urgently. "Twister, look at me! It's me. It's Reggie."

Sherry and Trish jogged over, the glory of their victory fading out, as they began to take in just how badly Twister had been beaten.

"He needs help," Reggie croaked, her eyes wide and anxious. "Get help, please. He needs it, now."

Sherry took off without hesitation, sprinting as if she were pursued by their ill-tempered coach. Trish crouched down on the other side of Twister, examining the boy with a disturbed eye.

"Here, get him on his side," she suggested.

"I don't wanna hurt him by moving him..."

"Neither do I, but he's choking on the blood."

She was right; Twister's ragged breaths had turned to a horrible, rattling gurgle, as blood from his nose ran down his throat. Carefully, they eased him over onto his side, and Reggie cradled his head off the ground.

"Twist, please look at me," she tried. "We're getting help, okay? You're gonna be alright."

Twister only managed a weak groan in reply. He blinked rapidly, fighting the overwhelming pain throughout his body.

"Hey, Twister?" Trish called, "Stay with us, dude. You hear me? You gotta stay awake for us, alright?"

Even as she spoke, Twister's eyes fluttered shut, and he gave a more violent shiver, going rather pale. Reggie reached with her free hand, attempting to grasp his, until she saw blood there, too. In fact, now that she was getting over the shock, the reality of just how Twister had been hurt was settling over her, as it had done her friends. His wounds weren't just from an ordinary beating, and as she gently grasped his wrist, and turned his hand upward, she gasped.

"Easy, Reg," Trish warned. "He needs your help to focus. Keep him awake."

"They tortured him," Reggie said weakly, staring at Twister's hand.

"Yeah. And they're gonna pay hell for it. But right now, Twister _needs you_. You hear me, girl?"

Reggie forced herself out of her horror, setting Twister's hand down carefully, though she couldn't rid the sight from her mind: The sight of industrial cable staples, sticking out of her friend's bloody palms.

Despite their best efforts, neither she nor Trish could keep Twister awake; the pain was too much for him, and before long, he lay still, slipping into unconsciousness. The managed to revive him a few minutes later, but it was little use, for he swung in and out after that.

Deciding they couldn't keep him awake, they began doing what they could for his wounds. Trish had her water bottle, and carefully attempted to rinse dirt from the boy's palms, while Reggie sacrificed a sleeve of her shirt, to stem the flow of blood from a particularly nasty gash on his shoulder; a gash that couldn't have come from anything but a knife.

As she pressed on the wound, Twister stirred again. This time, he was a little more responsive, his eyes gaining a little more focus.

"Twister?" Reggie tried, grasping to desperate hope.

"R-Reg...?"

Trish looked up sharply, latching on to that same hope, as Reggie gave a short, breathy, almost hysterical laugh.

"Hey," she said, trying to smile, as she saw that Twister was actually _seeing_ her. "There you are."

Twister mumbled something in reply, and began trying to move. Both girls immediately stopped him, trying not to agitate his injuries, though he gave a whimper of pain, regardless.

"Don't move, Twist," Reggie ordered. "No. You have to stay still, okay? You're hurt."


	71. Chapter 70

"Twister, mate. Can I talk to you a sec, in private?"

Twister blinked, looking up from his phone, and saw Trent, standing quite close, giving Twister an earnest look. "Uh... sure, dude, what's up?"

Trent beckoned, and Twister followed, puzzled, as he led them into a vacant classroom. It was dark in here, and disorganized – the art classrooms generally were. Twister moved to turn on the light, but Trent stopped him hurriedly.

"Wait," he said. "I don't wanna get caught."

"Caught?"

Trent was close again – a little too close. Twister felt suddenly uneasy, uncertain what to make of the way Trent was looking at him. For a moment, he was afraid, for he'd been cornered like this one too many times by bullies who sought to beat on him. There was a hint in Trent's posture, however, that told him something else was going on here.

"Trent, I-"

"Don't be afraid," Trent interrupted, smiling gently. "I didn't mean to startle you. It's just... I wanna get to know you a little better."

Twister eyed him warily. "Know me? You already know me. We hang out a bunch-"

"Not like that. See, Twister... I'm gay."

"Y-you're... you're gay?"

"Yes. And I know you are, too."

Two feelings struck Twister then: Cold dread, and curious anticipation. "H-h-how do you know?"

"Let's just say I have good gaydar. You hide it pretty well, though. It's a shame – you're really cute, you know. I wouldn't mind going out with you."

Blushing, Twister looked away. "Um... dude, it's not that you're not hot or anything... I-I mean, you are! You're really attractive. But I, um... I'm not sure I like you the same way."

Trent drew back a little. "You don't?" he sounded disappointed. "Is there someone else, then?"

"Well, no, not... not exactly," Twister babbled, wondering why he was confessing all of this. He'd kept it a careful, closely-guarded secret for so long. "I, uh..." he swallowed. "I have a crush on... someone."

"Another guy?"

"Y-yeah."

"Who?" Trent pressed, studying him, before frowning. "Not Otto, surely?"

"No. Otto's my best bro. Besides, I don't think he's gay... no, it's... it's one of the guys on the football team. Alex Brenner."

"What the _fuck?!_"

The cry was from neither Trent nor Twister, and Twister startled back, glancing around in a panic. Trent uttered a curse, then flicked on the lights in the room... revealing a lot of movement. Twister backed into the wall, then froze in shock, as he saw numerous students coming out of hiding. Among them was Otto, who was holding a video camera. Next to him, scowling with fury, was the aforementioned football player.

Alex advanced towards Twister, fists balled, but stopped, and gave Twister a sneer of disgust. "You fucking queer!" he spat. "You're a freak!"

"Told you, mate," Trent said casually, smirking as he saw the horror in Twister's eyes. "The gaydar doesn't lie. He's a queer, alright."

"You get that shit on tape, Rocket?" Alex demanded behind him.

Otto nodded, saying nothing, though his gaze was fixed on Twister. There was disbelief and hostility on his face; an accusation, which cause a shard of pain to lance through Twister's chest. He found, quite suddenly, that he couldn't breathe, and when he looked around at the other students, he saw that same, accusatory glaring.

"You're gonna be a star, Rodriguez," Alex growled. "And you're gonna learn what happens to pervs like you in this place."

He lunged at Twister then, and the boy had no time to dodge, before a fist connected squarely with his jaw. He went down, hard, toppling into a desk, and was barely given time to recover, before a brutal kick struck him in the gut. A hand grabbed him by the throat, hauling him up, and slamming him into the nearby wall, where he slid down with a pained groan.

It was then that he noticed Alex was unbuttoning his jeans. He straddled his legs over Twister, and Twister pushed at him, terrified, only to find two of the other students – also football players, he recognized – came in to help Alex. They pinned Twister in place, and all around, the other boys crowded in, jeering and cursing at him. Oddly, Twister couldn't see Otto, but that was the least of his problems.

"You wanted dick," Alex hissed, yanking his fly open, and reaching into his boxers, "You're gonna get dick. You piece of shit."

He exposed his penis, stepping closer, and gripped Twister's hair, forcing his head up. Twister tried to struggle away again, but the hold of these jocks was like a vice, and he was utterly helpless to do anything, as Alex pinched open his jaw, and mounted his victim's face. He began thrusting aggressively, ignoring the miserable choking and gagging.

When Alex came to orgasm, he waited with his penis in Twister's mouth, forcing the boy to swallow the remnants. Only when he was certain Twister had done so, did he back away, to the cheering and hysterical laughter of the onlookers. Twister cried in humiliation, his eyes shut tight, but was given no chance to recover.

More beatings followed, with taunts and jeers to follow. A second contender approached, with a terrible glint in his eye, as he looked down on Twister.

"Hey, faggot," the guy greeted. "You like taking it up the ass? That's a thing with you weirdos, isn't it? All about the ass."

Twister trembled in terror, as this jock, too, began to undo his pants. He tugged again to escape the hold of his captors, but was only met with a violent jab to the ribs. The resulting stun meant he wasn't ready for the next attack, as the jock dropped his pants, turned, and shoved his backside into Twister's face. Twister retched, overwhelmed with revulsion, but there was no mercy, and soon, the other boy withdrew, turned, and began to repeat Alex's violation. For a second time, he choked, but this time, as the jock moaned and ejaculated, Twister couldn't take it. He threw up, causing the jock to curse, withdraw, and strike him.

He slumped down, feeling the others release him, and lay on his front, as more bile spilled up out of his mouth. Someone climbed onto his back, and slammed his head against the floor, while more swearing and threats were whispered into his ear.

He couldn't fight anymore; he was limp in this hold, sickened to his core, and injured from head to toe. His wrists were similarly flimsy, as someone else grabbed them and began tying his hands behind his back, and he was only distantly aware that his pants and boxers were being tugged down. As the whispering stopped, the room itself seemed to take a breath of anticipation – before Twister felt terrible pain surge from his backside.

The grunt that followed, with the feeling of warm skin against his own, told him what this was, and he could only lay there in defeat, as another of the students began to rape him. He cried out with the agony of it, then fell into sobbing, while the boys around him began to chant.

…

Otto had stopped filming and left when Alex had first violated Twister, and now that he was away from it all, the whole idea of ambushing Twister, to out him, felt stupid. He was conflicted; on the one hand, he was disgusted with Twister – his best friend, a _gay?_ It was world-shattering news to Otto, and he was reeling with anger from it.

This part did the most to justify what he knew was happening to Twister, back in that room, but that was the only part. The rest of him felt sick with himself. This whole ordeal was _wrong_, somehow, though he was too upset to grasp the whole reality of it.

He feet carried him out to the benches on the track field, and as he took a seat, he thought back on the tape he'd taken. He'd asked Twister to borrow his camera to do this, and for some reason, that, beyond all other things, brought more guilt bubbling to the surface. It was as if he'd violated some invisible line: Outing Twister with his own camera.

With a tired sigh, Otto stared down at the device, playing with the view screen, before he set it down next to himself, the lens pointing away. How many times had that lens captured awesome moves and tricks? How many fun shenanigans over the years had Twister filmed? It was perverse, to have used it against its master in such a manner.

"Hey, what's up, Rocket Boy?"

Otto startled, looking up, and found Reggie, Trish and Sam looking back from the base of the benches. They were in track gear, and he cursed himself for not having checked the schedule, or at least picked somewhere more secluded. He looked away from them.

Reggie frowned at her brother's lack of response, and after exchanging a glance with the others, she climbed up to him. As she sat down next to him, she noticed Twister's camera. She picked it up, and – whether on instinct, or by some hunch – pressed the playback and opened the screen panel. Otto, realizing what she was doing, quickly snatched it away from her.

"Don't!" he snapped.

"What?" Reggie demanded, annoyed by this behavior. "Otto? What's going on? Why do you have Twist's camera? He never goes anywhere without it."

"Don't say that traitor's name around me," Otto growled, refusing to look at her.

"'Traitor'?" Reggie repeated. She moved to the lower bench, standing and facing Otto, as Sam and Trish watched on uneasily. "What are you talking about? Did you guys fight?"

"He's gay!" Otto stormed abruptly, gritting his teeth. "He's _gay_, Reg. My supposed 'best' bud' is gay."

Reggie blinked, startled, while Sam and Trish exchanged glances with just as much surprise. "Twister?"

"_Maurice_. He's a fucking faggot."

"Hey! Don't you ever say anything like that!" Reggie snapped, her eyes going wide. "That's a really nasty slur, Otto. And it's not cool."

"It's not my fault he's like that. It's the truth. We found out today."

"Who's 'we'?"

"Me and Trent. And some of the guys from the football team," Otto spat. "He has a crush on Alex Brenner. He admitted it! It's disgusting."

"No, it's not, Otto," Reggie shot back, growing angry. "So what if Twister likes boys? How is that any problem of yours? You're supposed to be his friend. It's not like he has a crush on you... does he?"

Otto snorted. "No... but it's bad enough that he's gay! It's... it's just wrong, okay?!"

"Did you say all of this to him?" Reggie demanded. "Where is he?"

Now, Otto cringed, and something like shame and embarrassment showed in him. "With Alex and the other guys."

Reggie went still. At first, her thought was that Twister was asking Alex out, but something about that look on Otto's face, and the mention of the other guys, set off alarm bells in her head.

"Otto. Where are they?" she asked slowly.

Otto heaved a frustrated sigh. "What's it to you, anyway?"

"Because the football team is full of homophobes. Where the fuck is Twister, Otto?"

Trish, Sam and Otto all stared at Reggie in awe. Reggie hated swearing; sure, she sometimes said a few of the lighter words, but _never _had any of them heard her outright cuss like that. Otto searched her eyes fearfully, and found both worry and a deep, terrifying rage.

"Art 2," he confessed.

Reggie moved instantly, taking leaps down the benches, and running almost as soon as her feet hit the track. Trish and Sam traded another look, before they came to the unspoken agreement to follow her, leaving Otto staring after them.

He waited a beat, plagued with indecision, before he suddenly took off, intending to catch up, while the camera remained on the bench behind him.

…

The art room was empty when the four teens burst in. Empty, yes – but not devoid of evidence.

There were a few items knocked over, where the assault had begun, and as Sam began poking around in what his friends called his 'Sherlock Mode', he paused, crouching down over traces of blood and vomit, and something worse than both, that made him feel sick to his stomach.

"If you're lying about where they are-" Reggie began, turning on Otto.

"He's not," Sam said quietly, his stare fixed on the mess on the floor. "They were here. Not long ago."

Trish peered down, then recoiled, also recognizing the substances. "Is... is that what I think it is?"

"Blood, vomit... semen," Sam confirmed, trying desperately to keep an objective head. He removed his glasses a moment, to rub the bridge of his nose. "This is bad."

Reggie and Otto, who had both frozen at the mention of what was on the floor, looked at each other, forgetting, momentarily, that they were at odds.

"Where would they have gone?" Reggie asked shakily.

"I... I don't know. We were supposed to get the film and then leave and out him," Otto babbled, gripping his hair anxiously. "I don't know."

"The film? Where's the camera?"

Otto's eyes widened. "Shit! I left it."

"Go get it. Right now," Reggie commanded, her voice both strained and dangerous. "We're going to look for Twister. Sammy, do you... do you have any ideas on where he might be?"

Sam shook his head, rising, but began to think harder on it. "I don't think those guys would have stuck around, or taken him anywhere. Too much potential to get caught. No, they left him here, I'm sure of it... but Twister won't have gone far," Sam nodded to himself, before he paled, his thoughts carrying him along. "He'll... he'll be injured. Scared. He'll want to hide somewhere safe... somewhere..." he looked up at them abruptly. "Check bathrooms. Closed classrooms. Storage cupboards – secluded places."

No one objected. Otto dashed off, retracing his steps to retrieve the camera, while Reggie, Sam and Trish fanned out in the halls, searching the areas Sam had suggested, and taking care to stay within range of one another. To their fortune, it was not long before Trish, pausing outside the boy's bathroom down the way, called out.

It was obvious as day how she had found him, for Twister was not exactly silent. Sobbing reached their ears from the hall, as they cautiously entered the bathroom, and the despair and terror in those sounds made their hearts ache.

He hadn't bothered hiding in a stall; he was in too much pain to go far, and too much had been done to degrade him for him to truly care whether a stranger walked in on him. He grew quiet as he heard their approach, and from his place against the wall, on the floor, he drew his knees up, frightened that his tormentors had come back for more.

Trish and Sam halted when they rounded the corner and saw him, while Reggie continued her approach, though she was just as shocked by his appearance as her friends were. Twister was a mess of bruises, and his nose was bloodied, caking his lips and chin where it had run down. He regarded Reggie with one frightened eye, the other being too swollen for him to open anymore. As she got within a certain range, he pressed himself into the wall, gasping, as if he expected a strike from her.

"It's okay, Twister," Reggie blurted, raising her hands openly, while she closed the distance. "It's okay. It's only me."

Tears fell freely from his eyes, and he breathed hard, flinching as Reggie crouched down beside him. She almost cried with him, hating the sight before her, but she held her resolve, hoping to lend him comfort by showing him strength. Hesitantly, she reached for him, uncertain why she did so; she wanted to comfort him further, she knew, though how this could be done was beyond her.

Her hand came to rest on the side of his face that was least injured, and she found herself stroking his cheek gently. His skin was hot and clammy, and she could feel him shaking. Behind her, she heard Sam quietly request Trish run for help, before loud footsteps sprinted away.

"You're okay, Twist," Reggie reassured, as Twister flinched again, shutting his eyes. "Help is coming. You know how fast Trish can run, when she wants to."

Only the briefest touch of a smile graced Twister's lips. It was more a nervous reaction that anything else, and he was right back in his personal hell immediately afterward, breaths still unsteady. Reggie moved her free hand, and reached to grasp Twister's. She bit back a cry, as he griped painfully hard, desperate for friendly contact.

Sam watched on, while Reggie whispered more soothing words to Twister. He studied Twister critically, trying to still his racing heart, as he took in the boy's appearance and demeanor. Everything screamed of terrible wrongdoing: Stains on Twister's shirt, that matched the stains found in the art room.

There was blood showing through Twister's clothes, and Sam blushed, as he found his eye drawn to his friend's pants, where two stains of differing shades showed through from the way Twister sat. One, Sam knew, was from where Twister had wet himself, and it was concerning enough on its own. The other, however, scared Sam more, for this was darker, and lower down. Blood.

"Reggie," he said quietly.

Twister startled, and opened his eyes, his gaze fixing on Sam, before more shame washed over him, and he looked away. Reggie glanced back, an awful grimace pulling at the corners of her mouth.

"We need to call the police," Sam continued.

Reggie stared.

"I think he... I think he's been raped," Sam finished weakly, before he found that he had to sit down, along the opposite wall, where he hastily drew from his inhaler.

"Sammy, that's... are you sure?" Reggie looked back to Twister, whose trembling had worsened.

"That, or... something else has been done... he's bleeding," Sam blurted. "He's, um... he's bleeding from his..."

Reggie glanced down, and finally saw what Sam had seen. She gasped – a sound she couldn't control – and her hold on Twister's hand tightened with his.

"Okay," she breathed, her thumb anxiously working to pet Twister's cheek. "Okay, Twist. We're gonna get you some help soon. Everything's gonna be okay."

"Reggie?" Twister croaked, his voice utterly broken.

"Yeah?"

"It hurts. It hurts..."

Reggie swallowed, and tears, unbidden, and no longer contained by her will, trailed down her face. "I know, Twister. I know. I'm so sorry."


	72. Chapter 71

"Hey."

Reggie's call went unnoticed, at first. Silence, interrupted only by page-turning, or the scribbling of pencils, dragged out after it, and in this way, made that simple word seem all the louder. First Otto, then Sam, looked up from their homework, puzzled. But Reggie wasn't looking at them.

"Twister," Reggie said.

Twister was the only one who didn't look up; in fact, he didn't seem to notice anything at all. His focus was entirely on his papers, though – upon closer examination – it was clear that he was struggling to even read the math problems, let alone solve them. Still unaware he was under scrutiny, he had no reason to hide or guard the sheer levels of tired, dejected frustration in his expression.

"_Twister_," Reggie said again, setting her work aside, and scooting across the floor towards him. "Hey."

It wasn't until she reached out, and gently pried Twister's work away, that he reacted. He startled, blinking, and finally glanced up, frowning as he found himself being given the undivided attention of his friends.

"Huh?" he murmured.

"Why don't you take a break?" Reggie suggested.

At this, Twister's frown deepened. "But... I'll fail if I don't finish this," he said unhappily.

"You'll also fail if you push yourself too hard," Sam pointed out.

"I'm not. I'm... fine, I think."

"You don't _look_ fine, dude," Otto argued. "You look like hell."

"Twist, you're exhausted," Reggie insisted. "Go lie down."

"Lie down?"

"Yeah. Come on. You can complete the work later. Right now, you should try to rest a little bit. Otto's right: You look terrible."

And he did, now that they had a better look at him: There were dark circles under his eyes, and he seemed too peaky. More troubling was his apparent inability to comprehend the suggestion; sure, he was Twister, and he sometimes couldn't understand the obvious, but this was different, somehow. Like he wasn't all there, at present.

Reggie repeated her order to him, twice, before he seemed to grasp what she was telling him. He set his pencil down, and though he was clearly confused why he was doing so, he clambered unsteadily to his feet, staggering for balance. They could all see him trembling; an unnatural affliction, for someone so used to daily routines of hard sports.

He started to shuffle for the door, then stopped, and Reggie, worried now, stood quickly, and took hold of his elbow, directing him along. "Go lie down in Otto's room, okay? I don't want you taking the stairs."

She glanced back to quell objection from Otto, and though that protest had initially formed on Otto's lips, it died down, as he saw the seriousness in his sister's eyes. This was no time to gripe over his bed getting occupied; Twister needed to rest, immediately.

Reggie stuck with him long enough to make sure he made it safely to the bed, and when he lay down, she stopped to pull a blanket over him, watching in grim silence as he shivered and closed his eyes. On impulse, she reached to test his forehead for fever, but found nothing significant, aside from the lack of reaction from him at this abnormally motherly gesture.

She made her way back to her room, the corners of her mouth fixed downwards. Sam and Otto stared up at her, waiting, as if she might pronounce some great discovery about all this. She passed them by, taking a seat again, and on a new impulse, she suddenly reached over and picked up Twister's homework.

Her brow creased as she flipped slowly through the pages. "He's _really_ far behind," she remarked quietly.

"He'll pull through," Otto said confidently. "He always does, somehow."

"Yeah, usually by breaking the laws of the working order of the universe to achieve a miracle," Sam muttered.

Reggie didn't share this confidence or light banter with them. She'd started to peer more intently at the answers Twister had written. She found she couldn't decipher any of them; there were jumbled numbers, literally all over the papers, and not always corresponding to the position of questions. They were scrawled unsteadily, barely legible, and were a vast departure from Twister's usual handwriting.

She turned a page over, coming to the section for more obscure ways to calculate and measure time. Here, more of the same met her eye, but there was an additional, mystifying inclusion of clocks. Many clocks, all of them messily hand-drawn, as if Twister had been trying to manually calculate with them. These, like their number counterparts, were a picture of chaos. Numbers were mixed, or absent, or off the clocks altogether, while the hands might as well have been random lines.

"I don't think this is going to be as simple as muddling through somehow," Reggie remarked, passing the papers to Sam. "Look at this."

Sam took the papers from her, and almost immediately frowned, as he followed Reggie's discovery. "What on earth...?"

"Is that normal? I mean, I've had papers with equations all over the margins, but... not like _that_."

Sam wasn't sure what to say. He flicked the pages over, examining Twister's work with growing unease. As he came to the page with the clocks, however, he stopped dead, going very still.

"Whoa," he whispered.

Otto, peering over his shoulder, snorted. "Man. I thought he was the artist of the group! These look like they were done by a preschooler."

Again, Sam lacked a reply to give, and his mouth had fallen open a little, while his eyes had gone wider.

Reggie didn't miss this. "Sammy?" she asked cautiously, "What is it?"

"Um..." Sam swallowed, his throat feeling dry. "I really don't like to say this, but... I think... I think Twister needs help."

"Duh," Otto sighed. "That's what we're here for, right? Let him have his nap, and then we can work on the problems with him-"

"Not that kind of help," Sam interrupted. "Guys, I think... I think Twister needs a doctor."

Both Rocket siblings went as still as Sam had a moment ago.

"What do you mean?" Reggie demanded.

Sam held up the page with the clocks, pointing urgently. "This isn't normal, not by a long shot. Psychiatrists and neurologists often use something called a clock-face test to determine whether patients are cognitively impaired."

"Which in English means...?" Otto said.

"It's pretty simple: If the patient can draw a normal clock, they're fine. But clocks that look like this – that look _exactly_ like this – indicate something is seriously wrong," Sam swallowed again, fearfully. "Usually, the patient can't even tell that they've drawn the clock wrong."

"You're telling me he drew these," Otto gestured to the page, "And thought he was drawing something normal?! That's..." he face fell, and he grew serious and quiet. "That's fucked up."

"But what does it mean for Twist?" Reggie asked. "What do you mean, 'seriously wrong'? Is he going to be okay?"

Sam winced at the panic edging her voice. "Perhaps it's a better idea to avoid jumping to conclusions... it could just be because he's really stressed... though, if he's stressed enough to be doing this, it's pretty bad."

Reggie looked away, pursing her lips. Abruptly, she stood up again, moving halfway towards the door, before she stopped herself, conflicted. She wanted to wake Twister immediately; see if they couldn't get to the bottom of all of this. Yet, the very fact that he was somehow sick still meant he needed to sleep.

She groaned in frustration, gripping her hair. "How do we help?" she demanded, wheeling around on the boys.

"Well, like I said, it's very likely he needs to talk to a doctor."

Otto narrowed his eyes. "What kind of doctor are we talking about, Squid?"

Sam rubbed the back of his neck anxiously. "Um... well, it'll probably start out as a general practitioner, but if it turns out he needs more help... uh, he may be referred to a psychiatrist. But we don't know for sure yet," he added hastily, as Reggie began pacing in agitation. "I wanna talk to him when he wakes up. See if I can't get a better idea of what this is about."

So they waited. Attempts were made to do more homework, but it was futile; all three of them couldn't help but be afraid for their friend, and many times, Twister's homework was passed between them. Otto eventually had to physically intervene, to stop Reggie from storming over to his room and waking their friend.

This was how Noelani found them. She could read the distress on their faces, even from where she stood in the doorway to Reggie's room. She glanced back to the still-open door of Otto's room, where she'd peered in moments ago, and found Twister, sleeping fitfully. Grimacing, she knocked gently on the door frame.

"Hey, guys," she greeted kindly. "Is everything alright? I saw Twister lying down. Is he ill?"

The trio looked up sharply, then stood as one, rushing over to Noelani, and waving a homework packet at her, as they all began speaking at once. Noelani recoiled from this a little in confusion, until Reggie – first, as always, to gather herself in such situations – shoved Sam and Otto apart, and took command of the papers.

"Something's wrong with Twister," she told Noelani directly. "We're not sure what, but he's been exhausted this whole session. And his homework..."

Noelani took the packet, as Reggie shoved it at her. She braced herself, expecting to read more than a few wrong answers and very Twister-like logic. As her eyes darted back and forth between the chaos, however, she frowned deeply.

"He wrote this?" she asked the trio, who nodded. She examined the clocks worriedly. "What was he like when he was writing?"

"Reg called to him a bunch of times," Otto put in. "It was like he couldn't hear her. And he looked like hell."

"Sammy, explain the clocks, please," Reggie said.

Sam repeated his suspicion to Noelani, as succinctly and neutrally as he could. Even with his careful effort, however, he could see the fear rising in Noelani. She turned right around after a moment, staring back to where Twister was still at rest.

Or, rather, where he had been resting, because he certainly wasn't now.

He stumbled out of Otto's room, woken and drawn by the commotion, and Noelani gasped at just how terrible he looked. He didn't seem too clear on where he was, or even _why_ he was, and he only really noticed them when he got closer. He stared at them with hollow, puzzled eyes, his jaw somewhat slack.

"_Que chingados_...?" he mumbled, halting, and almost falling over. "I didn't know we were on TV."

"Twist, what are you doing?!" Reggie cried, darting around her stepmother, and rushing over to him. "Go lie down."

Twister withdrew from her sharply, backing into the wall, his eyes wide and terrified. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry, please!" he blurted, shrinking. "I didn't take it, I promise, just don't hurt me, okay?!"

Reggie halted. "Twister?"

"I didn't take it..." Twister went on, as if his fear had instantly been switched off. "Josh said... what did he say? I forget," he paused, frowning at Reggie. "Do _you_ remember?"

Reggie studied him closely, taking in the way his eyes seemed out of focus. "Twist," she said, reaching cautiously for him, "Go lie back down, okay? Do you understand?"

"Reg, be careful," Sam warned, alarmed. "He's out of it. I don't think he knows what he's doing."

Reggie nodded almost imperceptibly, while she began trying to coax Twister back to bed. Behind her, Noelani made an approach, which Twister only reacted to with a curious glance, at first. He gave both of them a confused grin, briefly.

"I have homework," he told them, matter-of-factly.

"Will you three be alright keeping an eye on him?" Noelani whispered to Reggie. "I'm going to call Dr. Taggart."

Again, Reggie nodded, while she smiled for Twister, trying desperately to still her racing heart. They all watched Noelani go, before Reggie set her hand on Twister's back, trying to continue herding him to Otto's room. Twister didn't resist, and Sam and Otto followed at a distance, unsure what to make of their friend's instability.

Twister stopped when he reached the room, and Reggie felt the resistance now. "Come on, sweetie," she said softly. "Just lie down."

"On front?" Twister asked her. "I didn't want that. He made me lie down like that. Is it weird?"

Reggie squinted. "What?"

"I have homework. Mrs. B is gonna be mad I didn't."

"Don't worry about that, okay? Come on."

Reggie pressed his back again, but had no such luck getting Twister to budge. He was eyeing Otto's bed like it was a rabid dog.

"I'm scared, Lars," he said to Reggie.

"I'm not Lars. What are you scared of?"

"It hurt a lot. You're not Lars. I'm sorry... I don't remember."

"What the fuck is he saying?" Otto hissed at Sam.

"I don't think he knows that, either," Sam remarked, disturbed. "This is... I don't know what this is. He's really sick."

"I'm not sick!" Twister snapped, wheeling around to glare. "You're sick!"

"Easy, Twist," Reggie pulled him back. "Take it easy."

"Sammy's sick," Twister said, with earnest concern. "Are we both sick?"

"I'm okay, buddy," Sam told him, slowly and clearly. "Do as Reggie says, alright? It's time to lie down."

Twister seemed to finally register this prompt, and turned back again. As he neared the foot of the bed, however, he reached down for the button of his pants, and clumsily began trying to undress.

"No, no, no, Twister, keep those on, okay?" Reggie blurted, pulling his hands away.

Blinking, Twister tilted his head. "But he said I wasn't allowed to."

"Who?"

Immediately, Twister pointed – to an empty corner of Otto's room. "Him."

"Holy shit," Otto breathed. "He's lost it."

Sam brushed by both him and Reggie. "Do you see someone, Twister?" he asked urgently.

"Well, yeah! He's right there. You need new glasses. Can you put glasses over your glasses...?" Twister trailed off. "I thought it was okay."

"Twister, buddy, focus on me a second," Sam said, moving himself between Twister's line of sight, and the vacant corner. "You need to lie down, right now. Reg and I will help you."


	73. Chapter 72

Reggie, Sam and Otto were out of breath by the time they raced into the Shore Shack. Elbow pads, knee pads and helmets went flying, removed in haste, and stuffed out of the way, while they hurriedly began searching for aprons. Tito, working at the grill, glanced up at the commotion.

"Hey there, little cuzes!" he greeted cheerfully. "Looks like you lucked out today."

"You call this luck?" Otto grumbled. "Dad's gonna kill us when he finds out."

Tito chuckled. "True, he _might_ have killed you for being this late. But, as I said: You lucked out. We've got some extra help joining us today. Hey, Twister!"

The three teens stared at him, puzzled, but Tito's eyes were on the door to the kitchen area. In moments, that door quickly opened, and out came a figure none of them recognized. He was their age, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, and sported a crew cut of startlingly red hair. He was on the thin side, though not without muscle; an athlete.

He wore a Shack apron over his blue tank top, and as he looked around, he spotted the other teens, and immediately lowered his gaze shyly.

"This is Twister," Tito introduced, looking the boy up and down, and folding his arms. "He's going to be helping out here for the next month, to teach him not to break in again."

"Wait, what?" Reggie said, startled. "You had a break-in?"

"Last night. Twister here thought it would be a good idea to see if he could steal from my medicine cabinet."

"Dude, that's lame," Otto said, scowling at Twister. "What, you some kind of druggie?"

Twister didn't answer, even when the silence became uncomfortable. He simply waited, with both shame and uncertainty radiating from him in waves.

Tito sighed heavily. "You can go back to work, Twister."

"You sure you want a thief working back there?" Otto went on. "What if he, like, tries to get high on something?"

"Nothing for him to take," Tito shrugged, as Twister silently returned to the kitchen. "Raymundo padlocked the cabinet. If things do go missing, though, the kid'll have to answer to Officer Shirley."

"I'm surprised she hasn't already taken him to juvenile hall," Sam remarked. "A break-in to steal medicine? That's pretty serious."

"Eh, it's a little more complicated than that. Officer Shirley decided to show him a little lenience, and Raymundo agreed."

"Why do you call him Twister?" Reggie asked suddenly, frowning. "That can't be his real name."

"It's not," Tito agreed, "But he won't give his name. Won't give much of anything, come to think of it."

"How come?"

Tito's eyes gained an almost sorrowful, sympathetic look. "He's mute. Won't talk; maybe can't talk. He's still got his tongue, and nothing's physically wrong with him, or so I'm told. I got the feeling Shirley knows more about it, 'cause the bruddah can definitely write, and she knew to call him Twister."

"Hold on, back up a sec. Let me see if I heard you right," Otto said, "He doesn't get jail time... because he can't talk? That's stupid. People could get away with anything like that!"

"It's probably not strictly because of that," Sam put in thoughtfully, sliding into his seat at the bar table. "It's not normal for a guy his age not to talk when he's physically able. Mutism like that usually goes hand-in-hand with mental illness or trauma."

"Great, so he's junkie, a thief, _and_ a nutcase," Otto grumbled, as he and Reggie sat down next to Sam. "

"Watch it, Otto," Reggie warned. "He might have done wrong by breaking in, but that's no reason to diss him for his disability."

"And a disability is no reason to let him off this light! He tried to _steal_ from Tito. What if he'd been armed or something? What if Tito had got hurt, or he'd stolen cash from the register?"

"But I didn't, and he didn't," Tito said, raising a placating hand. "The call's been made, little cuz. I don't think Twister's gonna be doing something like that ever again."

"But you don't know for sure."

"If I knew everything for sure, I'd be a rich man. All I can do is take a good guess based on what I experience. Now, what'll it be?"

"I'm not hungry," Otto muttered, rising.

Reggie rolled her eyes. "Where are you going?"

"Wherever I want to, Reg! I don't have to work. And I _don't_ have to eat lunch with that thieving kook hanging around."

Sam and Reggie exchanged long-suffering looks, while Otto grabbed his gear and stalked out of the restaurant. They declined to follow him, determined not to let this unexpected time off slip away for the sake of cooling Otto's temper.

While they munched down on burgers and shakes, Twister reappeared, to bus a couple of tables. The pair of them watched him subtly, as curious as they were wary, but he didn't seem to pay them much thought in return. He looked nervous, and constantly gave a small, reflexive startle at every noise beyond a whisper, glancing for the source each time.

"Young man. Tell me the difference between these burgers."

A shoobie woman – overweight, overdressed, and overly sour – reached out for Twister, before the boy could turn. She grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him away from his current table, and shoved the menu at him. He went rigid, tense in her vice-like grip, and when he didn't say anything, the woman scoffed.

"Did you not hear what I said? I want you to tell me the difference," she demanded, jabbing him in the chest with the menu.

Twister began to pull at her hold, squirming like an eel caught on a fishing line. Even from where they sat, Reggie and Sam could both hear his breathing quicken. There was growing panic behind his eyes, and he was getting impossibly paler the longer the woman held on.

Reggie thought fast. She grabbed a spare menu from behind the counter, and stood up, making her way to Twister and the shoobie. Sam, uncertain of her plan, but not wanting to miss this, followed behind her.

"Excuse me!" Reggie called loudly, causing Twister to startle again.

The shoobie woman barely glanced her way; she was growing angry, and her glare was directed at Twister, as she, too, stood up. Twister took advantage of this motion to tug his arm free, and he backed right up, only stopping when his shoulders met one of the pillars. The woman overbalanced and nearly fell, but caught herself on the table – and turned red.

"How _dare_ you!" she snarled at him. "Miserable little wretch! I could have you sued, you know!"she looked him up and down, "Or perhaps I should contact the immigration authorities, hmm? Do you even speak any English, or did you not bother with that when you hopped the border?"

"He doesn't speak at all, _ma'am_," Reggie interrupted tersely, coming between the shoobie and Twister, while the other customers grew quiet, to watch. "If you continue being rude to him, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

"Mind your own business," the woman flapped a hand at Reggie, and began trying to get around her. "I'm sure the owner of the restaurant would be interested to know his filthy little pity-hire spic is harassing customers-"

"The owner is _my dad_," Reggie snapped, sending the woman into shocked silence, "And it's time for you to go. We don't tolerate slurs here."

The woman began to splutter, bringing out half-protests and unfinished remarks that couldn't find completion. All the while, Tito – who had finally noticed the commotion – came out from behind the counter, and Reggie and Sam weren't sure they had ever seen him looking so cross before.

He repeated Reggie's order to the woman, ignoring her glowering and muttering, and remained standing there, arms folded, until she finally grabbed her bags and left. The other customers all glanced away, resuming their normal conversations, but there was a hush over the restaurant now, and many eyes kept finding their way to Twister, who still stood against the pillar, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

"Go upstairs, Twister," Tito said gently, turning. "Go on. Take a little break, okay?"

Twister flinched when Tito gestured, and seemed confused by the direction. It was as if he was awaiting some reprimand – as if any motion to leave, on his part, would prompt every soul in the building to rain down hell upon him.

"Come on," Reggie said kindly, offering a smile of reassurance. "It'll be okay."

She, too, gestured to the steps, moving much more slowly than Tito. Twister watched her uncertainly, but gradually, as he sensed no further onslaught, he moved away from the pillar. Never for a moment did he turn his back on them, or anyone else, and they let him make his retreat, watching on until he disappeared up the stairs in a scramble.

Tito immediately turned to the pair. "Will you follow him, please, little cuzes? Make sure he's okay? I don't wanna have him bolt and get in more trouble. I gotta make a phone call."

Sam and Reggie didn't hesitate, letting Tito handle the place for awhile, though they both traded doubtful glances, as they made their way up to Tito's place.

"Remind me why we're suddenly sticking up for this guy?" Sam whispered. "He _did_ still break in."

"You said it yourself, Sammy: He's probably mentally ill, or traumatized from something."

"I said mutism goes hand-in-hand with that stuff," Sam protested. "And I'm not a doctor. We don't know what's wrong with him, Reg. It really could be that he's a drug addict."

Reggie shook her head. "He doesn't look like a junkie; he looks like someone who needs help, rather than punishment."

Sam bit down his protests, knowing from Reggie's expression that it would be useless to talk her out of this. If he was honest with himself, he was a touch worried for Twister, but he was more worried that the boy might be ransacking Tito's place. This stayed his course, as he followed Reggie into the top room.

"Twister?" Reggie called, easing the door open.

Of course, there was no reply, and they didn't expect one. They could, however, hear a very recognizable sound, which startled them a little, and stirred more sympathy in their hearts: Crying. Quiet, subdued sobs, made by someone fearful to their core about being discovered doing so. They followed the sound, treading with great care, almost to the point of sneaking. And when they entered into the main room, they stopped.

Twister had hidden himself away between the wall and Tito's sofa, which left him protected on three sides. He sat on the floor, his knees hugged tightly to his chest, while he trembled, and watched Reggie and Sam with almost feral, bloodshot eyes. Tears rolled down his face freely, but he'd gone very still, fearful of their presence.

"Hey," Reggie whispered, continuing her approach. "It's okay. Can we come in?"

"Careful, Reg," Sam cautioned behind her. "He's cornered himself. Don't trap him."

In response, Reggie found her way into the plush chair across from the sofa, with Sam hanging back nearby. She leaned forward a little, meeting Twister's eye. "I don't think we got properly introduced," she told him. "My name's Reggie Rocket. This is my friend, Sam Dullard."

It was odd, hearing such a normal greeting in this abnormal scenario, but normality was exactly what Reggie was aiming for: she would show Twister they meant him no harm. Certainly, he was puzzled by this, but it was better he be puzzled than totally afraid of them. He didn't take his eyes off them, and after a moment, raised his hands shakily, and made some kind of gesture.

Reggie tilted her head, frowning, but Sam blinked in sudden recognition, for that was no mere absent motion that Twister had made.

"Sign language!" he blurted, a little too loudly, making Twister shrink back. He winced. "Sorry. I just... I'm stupid," he explained. "Tito told us you couldn't talk, and I was wondering how we were going to talk with you if all you could do was write, but of course _sign language_ is a thing, and I'm an idiot-"

"Sammy," Reggie said sharply. "Chill. You're confusing him."

"Sorry."

Twister regarded Sam suspiciously, and though he hadn't stopped crying, he did hesitantly raise his hands again, this time in a short series of gestures. Sam squinted; he wasn't fluent in more than the basics of ASL, but he _was_ good at extrapolating meaning from most gestures.

Reggie glanced between them. "What did he say?"

"I think... he's asking what we want with him."

"Well, tell him- wait, no," Reggie shook her head to herself. "Mute, not deaf. We just want to help, Twister," she said directly.

Twister hesitated; it seemed like he wanted to sign something in return, but again, there was that fear in him; it was as if he expected them to suddenly rush at him, simply for communicating. They both caught this.

"Hey, we're not gonna hurt you," Sam told him gently. "You understand? It's okay to tell us stuff," he paused, venturing cautiously with a hunch, "Has someone hurt you before? For talking, or communicating?"


	74. Chapter 73

"Ow! Dammit, Twister!"

Otto picked himself up off the ground, irritably brushing away dust and pieces of rock from his arms. Twister, recovering from overbalancing, withdrew sheepishly, as Otto wheeled around on him.

"I'm sorry, dude!" Twister said, holding up his hands and backing away. "I didn't mean to, I just tripped."

"Yeah, tripped – and almost turned me into an Otto pancake!" Otto pointed.

The four teens all peered over the edge of the cliff, into the deep, rocky ravine below. Twister gulped audibly, glancing nervously at Otto.

"I'm really sorry," he said again, meekly.

"He's sorry, guys," Otto told Sam and Reggie, as he withdrew, and stalked over to his mountain board. "Twister's sorry he almost got me killed. He's sorry he forgot the stove, too. And he's sorry he couldn't remember which path to take to get back to camp! What else are you sorry for, Twist?! Maybe for, I don't know, _ruining our trip?!_"

They all looked at Twister, and though Reggie and Sam didn't seem keen on voicing Otto's frustrations, they weren't terribly pleased with him, either. His gaze traveled down as he grew sullen and guilty, and he toyed with the wheel of his board.

"I really am sorry, though-"

"Twister. Shut up," Otto snarled at him. "Just... shut the hell up. I don't wanna hear you talk. I can't believe you're even here. You should have stayed behind! I can't _believe_ I'm stuck out here with you. Idiot."

Otto stalked off, back towards the path, kicking almost hysterically at any debris that dared cross his path. Sam blew out his cheeks, eyes wide, and Reggie bit her lip, worried by the hurt that had settled in Twister's eyes. While Sam followed Otto, Reggie hesitated a moment, then stood closer to Twister, reaching out to set a hand on his shoulder.

"I know it was harsh, but Otto's just frustrated," she told him. "We all are. This is turning into Grand Canyon 2.0."

"And I don't even have my Gung-Ho Gopher belt," Twister mumbled.

"Well," Reggie said patiently, "What would Gung-Ho Gopher do in a situation like this?"

She'd hoped to spark a little more light in her friend's heart, or maybe just distract him, but it didn't work. Twister simply pulled away from her dejectedly, and began walking after Sam and Otto, his feet dragging, shoulders hunched. Reggie heaved a long sigh, and hurried along with them. On another day, she might have tried harder to raise Twister's spirits, but in truth, she was annoyed with him, too.

They carried on along the path they'd chosen, retracing their route from when they had first gone wrong. Their situation wasn't _quite_ as bad as it had been, all those years ago, when they had gotten lost in the Grand Canyon, but it was still a trial.

Now, it was made worse by the awkward silence that hung between the group, as they carried their slow march uphill. Sam and Reggie attempted small-talk between themselves, but Otto was still violently moody, and Twister too depressed, so they couldn't take it very far before that silence descended again. For several hours, it went this way, with the sun beating down on them, and dust clinging to their clothes and skin.

Twister was aware of a dryness in his mouth that indicated he was thirsty, but he didn't feel like he could drink anything. His stomach was doing somersaults, while his chest remained tight and painful. He couldn't stop thinking about the venom in Otto's voice, nor the looks his friends had given him, when Otto's furious accusations had been flying. It was eating away at him, and he wanted desperately to make amends somehow. That, and he was getting really thirsty.

"Ottoman?" he called.

Otto ignored him.

"Otto? Dude?" Twister frowned, swallowing, and tried to pull his water from his pack, so he could clear away the hoarseness in his voice. "Otto-"

"I thought I told you to shut the fuck up," Otto growled.

"I just-"

"Shut up, Twister."

"But I-"

"Shut _UP!_" Otto swung around, hand flying out, and knocked the water bottle right out of Twister's hold.

Twister stumbled back, startled, before his heel caught a tree root. He fell, hard, his ear clipping a rock as he hit the ground, and for a moment, all he could hear in the ear was ringing. He groaned, sitting up, and brought his hand up to the spot. When he pulled it away, he saw bright red on his fingers.

A shadow crossed over him, and he shrunk back, as he beheld Otto, standing above him with clenched fists. "Now you know how I felt when you whomped me back there!" Otto snapped. "Get up and keep walking. And shut up."

"Otto, stop it," Reggie said firmly, coming to Twister's side. "He's bleeding."

Otto turned his back on them. "Big deal. He'll get over it."

"Can you stop acting like a kook for five minutes?!"

"Oh, so suddenly _I'm_ the kook, when all this fool has done so far is make everything miserable for us? I'm tired, Reg! I'm tired of his stupidity."

"We're _all_ tired, Otto, but that's no excuse for you to treat him like shit!"

"He _is_ shit!" Otto exploded, almost screaming. "You're _shit_, Twister! This entire thing is your fucking fault!"

He began stalking off again, but Reggie had had enough. She stood up and furiously went after him, and while Sam took her place to check Twister's injury, the siblings began a dangerous argument. Sam stared at them wearily for a moment, before he turned his attention to Twister's ear. Removing his pack, he drew out the first aid kit his mother required him to pack for every trip, and began working to clean up his friend.

"Hey, hold still," he told Twister, as Twister winced and flinched away at the sting of antiseptic. "You're really bleeding, dude."

"Why don't you just go?" Twister said sullenly. "Let it bleed."

Sam frowned. "Why?"

"I'm no good. Otto's right: I'm shit."

"_Hey_," Sam said sharply, scowling now, "Don't say things like that, okay? You're not shit. Otto's just... being Otto."

Twister didn't reply, but Sam could tell Twister still fully believed what Otto had said about him. It made Sam want to join Reggie up there, yelling at Otto, but the gash on Twister's ear demanded his full attention, and as he examined it more closely, he began to grow uneasy. He couldn't see through the alarming stream of red, but there was something odd about this wound.

On a hunch, Sam glanced down at the rock Twister had hit, and he felt his stomach drop.

"Okay," he breathed. "Um, Twist... don't be alarmed or anything, but... you kind of... um..."

Twister picked up on Sam's fright. "What?" he asked, curious in spite of himself.

"Your ear is, uh... well, you've got a piece of shale embedded in it," Sam finished in a squeak.

"So take it out," Twister muttered dismissively.

"If I do that, it could bleed a lot more..."

"Fuck's sake," Twister spat.

Before Sam could protest, Twister suddenly reached up, feeling along his ear. His fingers found the rock shard, and he'd already gotten hold of it and tugged. Sam tried to physically stop him, but too late – Twister gave a pained cry, and blood spattered out, as he yanked the shard free. Certainly enough, his ear gushed blood in greater quantities, and Sam hurriedly grabbed the clotting agent.

"Dammit, Twister!" he shouted. "Why did you do that?!"

"I didn't want a rock in my ear!"

Sam cursed again, and began cramming the clotting agent against Twister's wound. The boy's shirt was soaked in blood now, and though the agent worked, Sam knew it would only do so for a limited time. He slapped Twister's hands away, to begin bandaging the injury.

"That was stupid," Sam admonished. "Really, _really_ stupid-"

"Yeah, well, that's the theme of the day, isn't it?"

Sam stilled, hearing the misery in Twister's response. He didn't know what to say, but he regretted his outburst. In silence, he finished taping off Twister's ear, and as he began removing the now-bloodied surgical gloves from his hands, Otto and Reggie returned. It was clear that neither of them were happy with the other, but Reggie stood straighter than Otto, who looked as if he'd lost the argument.

"Look, Twist..." he began, before his eyes widened, as he saw the amount of blood on Twister's shirt. "Dude!"

Twister scowled, picking himself up off the ground. It was a greater effort than he'd realized it would be, as a mild wave of dizziness struck him. He fought it away, determined not to show Otto that he was hurt. Without a word, he picked his stuff up off the ground, shoving his now-drained canteen into his backpack.

"Twister, Otto has something he'd like to say to you," Reggie prompted.

"That's great," Twister said flatly, brushing past them, to continue up the trail.

"Come on, Twist!" Otto groaned, as the rest of them followed. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?!"

"Cool."

Otto stopped, as Twister carried on. Exasperated, Otto turned to Reggie. "He's not gonna listen."

"Well, I don't blame him," Reggie snapped. "You were really hurtful to him."

"I_ know_, okay?!"

"In more ways than one," Sam said slowly. "He had a piece of rock embedded in his ear."

Both Rocket siblings grew quiet, staring at him.

"Did... did you get it out?" Reggie asked.

"Well, I didn't want to, because it's a bad move to remove things when someone's been impaled," Sam replied. "But he ripped it out. I put some clotting stuff on it, and the bandage should hold, but we should also keep an eye on him."

Sobered by these details, the group trekked on, with Twister constantly pulling ahead of them. He still walked as if he had a nagging pain in his middle, but every time Otto attempted to talk to him, he was met with stony silence.

By the time they reached the fork in the path again, it was growing dark. There were still miles to go to the campsite – on the correct path this time – but everyone was exhausted. They threw themselves down at a cluster of boulders, breathing hard from the last, steep stretch. Sam took a few minutes to regain his breath, and take a puff or two of his inhaler, but the moment he felt better, he got up again at once, bringing out the first aid kit, and moving over to Twister.

Twister saw his intention, and got up, as well, stubbornly sitting away from the group. His bandage dripped as he did, for it was thoroughly soaked, without a trace of white remaining under the crimson stain.

"Twister, I need to change your bandage," Sam sighed.

Still, Twister kept his silence, and turned away from Sam when the other approached again. Frustrated by this, Sam very nearly began yelling at him – but checked his reaction, as he took in his friend's state: Twister looked pale, and more exhausted than the others. His wound was sapping at him, certainly, and the injury to his heart couldn't have helped, but there was more to it than that, Sam thought.

"Hey," he said, more gently, "Come on, buddy. Let me help you."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not. Will you at least let me change the bandage?"

Twister scuffed his foot back and forth in the dirt, considering the request. "Fine," he muttered. "Then leave me alone."

"Deal."

Sam moved the moment he got approval, trying to hurry without hurrying. With new gloves adorning his hands, he carefully peeled away the sopping wet bandage from Twister's ear. Behind him, Reggie and Otto watched on, disturbed, as the freed wound began to leak again.

"Shit," Sam said in a hushed voice.

Twister gave an involuntary shiver as the blood ran down his neck. Sam eyed him carefully, and felt a warning go off when he saw the boy lick his lips; his extremely dry lips.

"You been drinking enough water?" he demanded of Twister.

Twister just shrugged.

"Drink more," Sam ordered.

"I don't feel good."

"Well, that's probably because of your ear. Just keep drinking water, dude. It's not good to get dehydrated out here."

Twister sighed. "Um... Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"Can you... can you fill my canteen when you go pump water next? I ran out."

Twister reached into his pack, bringing out the empty canteen. Sam nodded, indicating he should put it down, where it could be dealt with later. As Twister did this, Sam spotted the open lid, and the traces of dirt that hung around the lip of the container, from when Otto had cast it out of Twister's hands.

"Twister," Sam said firmly, stiffening, "When did you last drink something?"

"I dunno," Twister admitted, the anger in him gradually giving way. "Awhile ago. I told you, I don't feel good."

Sam's lips thinned to a line. "Reggie?" he called.

"What's up?" Reggie rose up off her mossy rock seat.

"Will you please go pump water for Twist? And maybe loan him your canteen, while you're at it?"

There was a trace of alarm in Sam's tone, which set both Reggie and Otto on edge. Reggie trotted over to them, water filter already at hand, and reached down for Twister's canteen. She, too, noticed that it was still dirty, and she met Sam's eye.

"You haven't had anything to drink since the fight?" she demanded, moving around to make Twister look at her.

He blushed – at least, he blushed so much as his body would allow, which was little, considering how pallid he'd become. "I'm sorry."

Reggie's brow furrowed in concern. "You're dehydrated," she stated plainly. "Twister, why didn't you say anything? We'd have given you a drink."

"I didn't feel good," Twister argued halfheartedly. "And why should I say anything, anyway? It would probably be something stupid. Like right now."


	75. Chapter 74

Ray leaned back easily in the beach hammock, his arm around Noelani's shoulders. They both kicked gently, swinging the seat in time with the gentle crash of waves. The silence between them was comforting, and Ray didn't want to break it. He might almost have been content to let it carry on, had not one thing been prying at his mind, and disturbing his peace.

He sighed, and Noelani took notice, tilting her head up to him. "That's not the kind of sound that belongs here," she told him, smiling gently.

"Sorry. It's just... well, I've been wondering about something."

"Such as?"

"Such as... what you think of the kids."

"The kids?" Noelani laughed. "They're wonderful. And they almost remind me of us, back in the day."

Ray chuckled with her. "Must be that ocean air."

Noelani hummed, and looked towards the sea. "What are you worried about, then? Otto and Reggie seem happy with you and I, and I think Twister understands, too."

Ray lost his grin, feeling it fade. "He's the one I worry about the most," he confessed. "He's already struggling, and now this... with us... I just hope it doesn't throw him off too badly. He needs parents to guide him – stability. It's different, with Otto and Reggie, since we lost Dani when they were little; they've had a lot of time to heal. But Twister? Twister was thirteen when... well."

"I did wonder about that, but I didn't want to say anything. About him, I mean. Was he... from another marriage?" Noelani raised the question cautiously.

"What? Oh! No, no, he's... well, I adopted him, actually."

Noelani almost sat up in surprise. "Really?"

"Yeah. He and the kids have been friends since they were three, and his family lived across the street," Ray explained, before falling still.

A new silence fell between them, but it was not the peace they had found before. Here, there lay all the unspoken woes; a tragedy. Noelani didn't push Ray to tell, sensing that he was seeking the right words to match the heaviness.

"There was a fire," he said quietly. "Both his parents and his older brother died, and it almost killed him, too."

Noelani's hands flew to cover her mouth, and the gasp that followed. This time, she did sit up, to look directly at Ray. She found that the sorrow welling inside her chest matched the look in Ray's eyes, and she lowered her hands again, slowly, grasping both of his tightly. He didn't look at her; his gaze was troubled, and a long way away.

"Thirteen years old," Ray repeated distantly. "Too young. It hit him pretty hard. He was sensitive, even before the... the fire. After that, though? It broke him for awhile. And I think he would have stayed broken, if Reggie and Otto hadn't convinced me to take him in. It was kinda funny... at first, they'd tried to get Sam to convince his mom to adopt Twister, but Paula never liked the kid, and afterward, she liked him even less.

"It was that look on her face that sealed the deal," Ray shook his head. "She looked at an orphaned _kid_, and _hated_ him because he wasn't well. That's when I knew, I couldn't just leave him to the system; not after he'd become so close to my kids. I kept thinking, 'What if he goes into foster care, and some random couple adopts him, and they look at him like that? Look at him like he's trash?' I couldn't do it to him. I... well, don't tell anyone I said this, but I love that boy."

"Never be ashamed of love, Ray Rocket," Noelani told him firmly. "You did a wonderful thing, taking him in like that. And he seems happy with you and the kids."

"You really think so?" Ray asked sincerely. "He doesn't seem... out of place?"

Noelani thought back on her encounters with Twister. "He's sad," she said, "But not because of you, or Reggie and Otto. I think it's a given that he'll always miss his family, and it's understandable. But is he out of place? No," she paused, cautious once again. "You're worried about his scars."

"I didn't even notice them until recently," Ray admitted. "Then I bought his story that they were from sports accidents, at first. It took Reggie and Otto to get him to come forward and tell me what was really going on, and then... then I didn't know what to do. I still don't."

"Did he tell you _why_ he's cutting himself?"

Ray paled a little. "He said it helps him feel better. I don't understand how. Pain makes him feel better? It's... scary."

"It is," Noelani agreed. "It's also true. The body releases endorphins in response to the pain, and there's a psychological factor to it, as well. Sometimes it's a cry for help, or just an attempt to make real the feelings that hurt inside."

Ray eased himself up in the hammock, studying her. "You seem to know a lot about this."

Noelani gave him a sad smile.

His grip tightened. "Did you-?"

"Yes. A long time ago, when I was a few years younger than he is now."

"But... you don't have scars," Ray said slowly, looking blatantly up and down her body.

"Mine were never as... _pronounced_ as his are. I have a few left, but they're well-faded now. The rest went away with treatment, and time," Noelani ran her finger along her thigh, pausing over faint lines that Ray now recognized.

"Then... that means you stopped. That it's possible for him to stop!"

"It's always possible to stop," said Noelani, "But it's important you remember that it means nothing to stop if you don't also heal the underlying cause."

Ray rubbed his thumbs absently over her knuckles. "His grief," he murmured.

"He said it was from grief?"

"Well, no... I mean... I assume it is, considering all that's happened, but he only told me that the cutting makes him feel better. I'm worried he feels like he doesn't belong, too. Would that cause him to... to hurt himself, do you think?"

"I honestly don't know," Noelani said gently. "That's something you'd have to ask him."

"I don't know how. He's pretty closed-off. Withdrawn. It's hard to even get him to admit he feels things, let alone _what_ he feels."

…

Twister noticed Noelani's proximity, and it made him wary. Granted, they were at a luau, and mingling was expected, but she seemed to hover nearby more frequently than usual. He wasn't sure what exactly it was that she wanted with him, but it was clear that something was on her mind, and she was patiently waiting within range.

She closed the distance during a wilder upswing in the party. While Tito took up dancing, and the others cheered and clapped and eventually danced along, Twister withdrew to the sidelines, content to watch, and found Noelani right there with him, seated next to him on one of the palm benches.

He knew, somehow, that Noelani wasn't just there to talk about random things with him; that she was there to discuss deeper issues, should he so choose to open up about them. He'd seen her look, the other day, when his arms had been bare for surfing – he'd come to know that look at school, when teachers discovered his secrets.

There was something different about Noelani, however; something he wasn't sure he could place. Yes, sure, there was classic concern, but Twister could have sworn there was an understanding there, too. It was this that made him tolerate her presence, for it was so unlike the blind pity given him by teachers and counselors, and even his friends and... family.

He heaved a tired, almost resigned sigh at the thought. _Family_.

"So, how many people have tried to tell you to cheer up so far?"

Her voice almost startled him. He glanced at her, briefly, and a rare smile threatened to tug at his lips. "A few. Locals, mostly."

Noelani gave a wan smile. "It's to be expected. Welcome is in the Hawaiian blood. But you're not obliged to be cheerful every second."

Twister grunted. "Otto says I'll get banned from the island if I'm not careful."

At this, Noelani laughed. "I think your brother might be taking the welcome a little too seriously," she said.

Twister tensed at the word. "We're not really brothers, you know," he mumbled, unsure why he felt like telling her that.

"Does it feel like he's your brother?"

"I guess so. He's always been my best friend. And we always do stuff together."

Noelani watched him carefully, taking note of the way he picked at the sleeves of his hoodie. That hoodie was well-used and worn, and though it was far out of place in Hawaii, he was rarely inclined to take it off; rarely wanted to display his deep scars to prying eyes.

"What do you want?" Twister asked suddenly, noticing her watching him. It wasn't an angry question, but a direct one.

"I'm not going to make you sit on a couch and ask you how things make you feel, if that's what you're worried about," Noelani offered. "I just thought I'd get to know you better."

"You think that before or after you saw them?" Twister said quietly.

"Before," Noelani answered, without missing a beat. "But I won't say that seeing them didn't make me worry about you, or make me want to talk to you more."

At this, Twister scowled. "I don't want worry."

"That may be so. But you probably know by now that people worry anyway, regardless of how we want them to feel."

"I still wish they didn't. I'm fine."

"I used to say that too, you know."

"What?"

"'I'm fine.' I used to say it a lot when I was your age, _especially_ when I wasn't fine. But because people kept asking, I kept having to say it, and the more I said it..."

"...the less it meant," Twister finished glumly.


	76. Chapter 75

"Tell us another story, Otto."

The crowd of students around Otto were unified in agreement. They had positioned themselves strategically, allowing Otto an open view to the subject of their discussion. On a nearby bench, sitting with his back turned to the crowd, was Twister Rodriguez.

Otto smirked. "There was this time he dug up his parents' back yard, because Lars told him there was buried treasure under it," he said loudly, to a chorus of laughter.

"Wow, how gullible can you be?"

"Well, _most_ people might be fooled for a few minutes – not Maurice," Otto went on, gliding over the detail where he'd also believed it, too. "He got into trouble with his parents, but then, get this: He _actually_ believed they were going to send him away to live with his aunt because of it!"

The laughter doubled; all of it carried a malicious, mocking undertone, the likes used by bullies for whom there are no punishments, because technically, they have done nothing overtly wrong. Twister was tense under their scrutiny, but he didn't turn around. He'd already tried walking away, but Otto and the others had merely followed him, taunting all the while.

Sam and Reggie were among the crowd, too, but they didn't join their peers in the mockery or giggling. They'd done what they could to dissuade Otto from his warpath; to convince him not to mercilessly torment his former best friend. Now, they stood as a sort of silent vigil, unsure what to do. If they sided with Otto, they would be no better, and if they sided with Twister, they risked becoming targets themselves.

"How did you put up with him for so long?" someone prompted Otto. "It must have driven you crazy."

Otto gave a dramatic sigh. "It's a tough job, being around him. He made me want to pull my hair out, just for all the stupid shit he'd say or do. And he wasn't even _good_ at the stuff we did – this one time, he beefed it trying to follow me on his board, and he got all moody about it like some tween kook. He was so scared to skate after that. It was really pathetic."

"Otto, come on," Sam said, seeing Twister stiffen. "Stop. Let's just go somewhere else-"

"No, we have a right to be here," Otto snapped back. "If Maurice doesn't like it, maybe he should leave school."

"Or leave Ocean Shores," came a wry suggestion. "Nobody wants him here."

There was a murmur of agreement.

"What I don't get is, why doesn't he just kill himself already? I mean, he obviously already wants to – have you seen his scars?"

"What?"

"He cuts himself. It's really gross. I bet he just does it for attention, though. He should just kill himself, and stop pretending people care."

Otto almost faltered in his mission then, so shocked was he by this information. Reggie and Sam both saw it in his eyes; saw the concern that blossomed there for a moment. It was a terror and a worry they shared, though they hoped that Otto might use it to see reason – see that he was going too far.

But it was gone in moments, as Otto recalled his fight with Twister, and recalled that he was up to his eyeballs in peer pressure. He hid his fears carefully away, going cold and stony once more.

Twister still hadn't turned, and stalwartly held position, but he was visibly trembling. It took a titanic force of his will to keep tears and panic at bay, but he did it, not least because he knew, if he wept, the torture would grow far worse. He wasn't sure how anyone had found out about his little 'habit'; he'd kept it so carefully hidden. Now that it was open to the public, however, he was bound to be bullied for it, for Otto's influence extended over the entire school, and made Twister a pariah.

"That's fucked up, Maurice," Otto called at him. "You an emo now?"

"Otto, stop," Reggie whispered to her brother.

"Maybe he'll start dressing like Eddie," someone crowed over her. "He can be Princess of the Netherworld. People like that always turn out to be fags."

"Hey, Maurice, show us your cuts!"

Several of the students cheered, repeating the command, and as one, the group began drifting in Twister's direction. He sensed it, and immediately stood up, grabbing his pack and moving to make an exit. Several of the students raced to block his path, and his bag was snatched away from him abruptly, before he had time to react.

They surrounded him, save Reggie and Sam, who watched with growing alarm. Otto pushed his way through the throng, and stopped at the edge of it, regarding Twister with a hateful eye, while the teen stood motionless in the middle, not looking at anyone.

"Show us," Otto said calmly.

Twister didn't reply, or move to obey. He kept his battle to hold back the internal screaming, but all who looked at him could see the dejection and humiliation in his eyes. His pack was passed around the group, until it reached Otto, who took it without care, holding it up with a finger, so that it swung gently.

"What you got in here, Maurice?" he asked. "This where you keep your razor blades?"

He ripped open the bag, breaking the zipper on the main compartment. Again, he felt almost wrong, as he began rifling through Twister's belongings, and he nearly withdrew his hand when he came across the familiar profile of the boy's camcorder. He switched his hold, taking grip of a stack of papers, and pulling them out carelessly.

To his surprise, they were drawings – sketches, done in intricate detail. He held them up and squinted, tossing Twister's bag to the ground.

"The fuck are these?" he demanded.

"Aw, look, he's an artist!" one of the girls cooed. "He's _definitely_ a queer."

The sketches were distributed, and the comments began – harsh, deep barbs, about the quality of his work, or the subjects he'd chosen, and how each was somehow a testament to what a failure he was. Otto declined to join them; he told himself it was because he wanted the crowd to make this effect, but in reality, he knew that Twister's work was outstanding, and couldn't yet bring himself to attack that side of Twister.

Until one of the drawings brought more attention than the others.

"Oh, Otto, dude. Holy shit."

Otto looked to where a few students had gathered around that piece of paper. They all glanced up at him, wearing various expressions of doubt and scandalous shock. He raised an eyebrow at them, and the paper was passed over.

A million feelings struck him, all at once, as he regarded this work of Twister's: Awe, marvel, disbelief, confusion. And then anger – hot, fiery anger, that rose up in waves, as he recognized the subject in the portrait, and the care and obvious affection that had gone into its creation.

Otto stalked right up to Twister, getting in his face, and holding the sketch up. "What the fuck is this?!" he demanded.

Twister still didn't meet his eye; couldn't. But he did glance at the sketch, and paled when he saw what Otto was holding.

"You have a crush on my sister?" Otto hissed at him. "Is this what this is? You got the hots for _Reggie?!_" he shoved Twister back, to a chorus of 'oohs'. "None of your other shitty drawings are like this, are they? You answer me, right now, you piece of shit!"

"Otto, stop it."

Everyone turned. Reggie and Sam had finally had enough, and were pushing their way through now. Reggie led the way, scowling, though when she, too, glimpsed Twister's drawing, she grew confused, hesitating. Her gaze switched to Twister, seeking answers. He only met her eye for a moment, the look intense and full of shame and apprehension. When he looked away again, Reggie swallowed her own nerves, and directed her attention back to Otto.

"Just leave him alone."

"Leave him alone?" Otto repeated back in a snarl, waving the sketch. "This little perv draws you like one of his French girls, and I'm just supposed to 'leave him alone'?!"

"It's just a portrait! It's not like he drew something lewd, and it's not illegal for him to draw people!"

"Maybe it should be! You don't see it, do you? He's in love with you, Reg, and that's lewd enough. I'm not gonna stand here and let this lame-o drool over you. He's disgusting."

"You know what, though, Otto?" Reggie spat back, "He's no more disgusting than you're being right now. My own brother, _bullying_ someone. Someone he still has respect for, even if he won't admit it!"

"Respect? I don't respect him," Otto gestured at Twister. "Nobody should respect him. He's a complete loser, and an idiot. And now he's a freak, as well."

Reggie folded her arms. "Really. And what does that make me?"

Otto scowled. "Stay out of this, Reg. This is between me and Maurice."

He turned back to Twister as he said this, and in a fit of rage, tore up the sketch in front of him. This sparked something inside Twister; some responding fire that he'd previously hidden away. Yes, he still felt godawful, and would still hide away to enact one of his worst ever sessions of self-harm later, but in that moment, seeing Otto destroy that picture of Reggie, the defeat in him was temporarily pushed back.

He struck fast, long before any among the crowd could comprehend what was happening, and all Otto knew was that his nose exploded in blood and pain, before he found himself on the ground, swearing and holding his face.

The group responded after that, erupting into jeers and hissing, while one or two brave souls lunged at Twister, and began a counter-attack. He was struck from many sides, and arms took his own, preventing him from defending himself, while someone punched him in the gut. In panicked response, he flung himself backwards, into the person gripping him, and began kicking out, hitting two of his attackers.

Commotion grew, and no one knew what was going on within the din and movement. Reggie and Sam were shouting now, as well, trying desperately to stop the growing numbers from raining down blows on Twister.

A whistle screeched across the grounds then, deafening, and those who had been further outside the pack immediately scattered, recognizing the fast-approaching, burly form of newly-appointed PE teacher Tice Ryan. Tice blew the whistle again when some of the students kept attacking Twister, and this time, people began to get the message. Otto's supporters vanished into thin air, dropping their victim, and leaving their glorious leader rolling on the ground with his broken nose.

While Tice bolted after – and caught – several of the students, Reggie and Sam ran to Twister. In the few minutes he'd been at the mercy of the mob, they had done quite a number on him. His own nose was bloodied, and he bore a rapidly-swelling eye, as well as a torn shirt and battered torso. He was trying to get off the ground, managing only to climb to his hands and knees, before the pain prevented him from rising further. One arm, he clutched close to his body, and when his friends reached him, they saw that his wrist looked odd and swollen.

"Are you okay?" Reggie asked him urgently, as she and Sam supported him, and moved him so he could sit.

Twister didn't reply. He was moody and frightened now, his anger having diminished not long after he'd broken Otto's nose.


	77. Chapter 76

"Twister?"

Twister stirred. He drew in a sharp breath, blinking groggily, and found that nothing in his field of vision made any sense. He recognized the place, certainly – the Rockets' living room. Other than that, however, he was stumped for when or how he had gotten here. Looking about, he realized he was lying on his back, and there were five anxious faces crowded around him.

Reggie was closest – yes, he recognized her, and tried to use her as focus. "What's going on?" he managed, before he frowned as his words came out as little else but barely-coherent slurring. "Where... where am I?"

Reggie deciphered. "You don't remember?" she asked worriedly.

"That's normal," said Sam, scooting in beside her. "Give him time. It'll come back to him eventually."

"Squid?" Twister asked, "What happened?"

"You had a seizure, buddy," Ray answered. "Scared us a little bit there. You okay?"

Twister blinked. He raised his head to look down at himself, and found he'd been laid out on the sofa, and there was a blanket covering him. The effort of moving to discover this was startlingly taxing, and he had to let his head drop back again, sighing as he did.

"I'm really tired," he mumbled.

"Yeah, I bet. You just rest a bit. We got you."

"Is he gonna be okay, dad?" Otto asked anxiously.

"I'm alright," Twister said faintly. "What's a seizure?"

"You remember when Eddie overdosed on his medication in class, and fell down and started shaking? That's a seizure."

"Oh," Twister felt a pang of fear. "I don't take medication, though..."

"You can get seizures even without medication being involved," Sam informed him. "Though you've never had a seizure before, so we're not sure what caused it. But we're gonna try to find out. There's a doctor on the way."

"A doctor? Am I sick?"

"Hopefully not, dude. Just relax, alright? Like Raymundo said, we got you."

"I don't..." Twister closed his eyes, drawing some deep breaths, "I don't feel so hot."

"You feel like you might need to hurl?"

"I dunno... sort of. I feel like I ran a million miles."

"That's normal, too," Sam replied, as much to reassure Twister as the others. "Take it easy, and keep breathing. Your body is exhausted."

Twister nodded, having no objections, for he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep. The nausea, however, battled against him, and he struggled with it, trying to do as Sam instructed.

It wasn't working. "I'm gonna throw up," he blurted.

He heard scrambling, as Otto and Noelani both raced to find him a bin. Noelani returned in seconds with a bucket from under the kitchen sink, and passed it quickly to Sam and Reggie. They were barely in time to grab Twister and pull him onto his side, before he vomited weakly.

"_Yes_, it's normal," Sam told Ray, as the man anxiously hovered nearby. "Unfortunately."

"I'm gonna call the doc and tell him to beat feet," Ray muttered in reply.

"Mr. Rocket, respectfully? Chill. I don't wanna scare him when he's like this," Sam cringed, as Twister brought up more bile, hanging miserably over the bucket.

"Um, Sammy?" Reggie said, trying to support Twister.

Sam glanced at her, and saw that she was watching Twister with worry. She started to strain to keep him on the sofa, and Sam grabbed him to help, pulling him back to safety. He'd stopped being sick, but was utterly limp and lethargic, his eyelids fluttering wildly.

"Twister? Hey, Twist?" Sam called to him, tapping his arm firmly. "Twister, can you hear me?"

Twister gave an insensible moan, but otherwise didn't seem responsive. His breathing was growing sharper and more erratic by the second, until that awful snoring sounded from the back of his throat. It was the second time in a matter of minutes they had heard that from him this evening.

"What's happening?" Otto demanded. "Did he pass out or something?"

Sam observed Twister carefully, trying to quell the growing alarm in his mind. He checked Twister's vitals, but had little time to do so, before Twister gave a cry of pain, the air leaving his lungs in a sharp, horrible croak.

"Shit!" Sam cried. "He's having another one!"

Ray and Noelani crowded in, with Otto jumping around to try to push by them. By the time the five of them were closer, Twister had started convulsing again, his arms and legs stiffening and twitching erratically, while he choked and grunted.


	78. Chapter 77

Reggie had a spring in her step today; it was the end of classes for this semester, and she had a lot to look forward to this coming weekend. After weeks of begging, pleading, arguing, going out of her way to behave, and generally getting on Raymundo's nerves, he had _finally_ relented – finally agreed to allow a party. Of course, rules had been fixed firmly in place immediately afterward, but that was beside the point. The party was on at the Rocket residence, and she was more than ready.

She'd already roped Sam into coming, and Otto was there by default. Trish and Sherry were on board, as well, and served as lieutenants, passing word throughout the student body, to invite a great host to this assembly of teens.

The only person Reggie had left to convince now was Twister.

Thinking of him tempered her cheer significantly. When she'd talked to him about it, he'd avoided the conversation completely, radiating discomfort with the whole idea. He hadn't given her time to press him, taking off and mumbling an excuse about a project for A/V club that they both knew didn't exist.

She knew very well why he disliked the whole concept, and part of her felt bad for trying to talk him into it. Still, she had hoped that having him attend would help him come out from behind the walls he'd so carefully constructed around himself.

Reggie frowned to herself as she continued through the halls, and recalled the origin of those walls. Sometime in their junior year, it had come to the attention of the Rocket gang that one of their number was quietly suffering. Twister had hidden it very well; so well that, for those first two years of high school, they never suspected a thing.

Then, nearing that crucial point of junior year, they'd noticed, more and more, how isolated Twister had become from most people outside their tight circle. Whereas Reggie, Sam and Otto all had their own, secondary groups, Twister didn't appear to hang out with anyone else. In fact, he went out of his way to avoid his peers.

Reggie remembered the day it had all come to light; the day she and the others discovered that, somewhere along the way, Twister had been docked in social status. It was a particularly distinguished day, because she and Sam had walked into a supposedly vacant classroom, and found that Twister was being mercilessly bullied.

The group attacking him had been holding him in place, while many of their number took turns casually brutalizing him. His mouth had been taped, his clothes removed, and he'd been covered in paint from the art supplies in the room, while laughing boys smeared his face and tormented him by blocking his nose with it, or by drawing crude pictures on his bare body.

He'd been so badly beaten that he was barely able to resist, but Reggie and Sam saw red on his behalf, and without thinking whether it would have been wise to do so, they'd charged at the group, screaming and cursing, horrified for their friend.

She'd almost broken her hand, swinging at some of those guys, as they beat a hasty retreat, and it was the first time she had ever seen Sam actually physically fight someone. But Reggie would never forget the way the boys had just casually deferred to her and Sam's authority, as if they'd been ordered by some officer to halt their actions, rather than halting out of respect for Twister. They had fled because they feared repercussions from peers; not because they had done something wrong.

They had reported the incident, and tried to clean Twister up and dress him again, but when teachers arrived, they found – to their shock – that those in authority weren't nearly as surprised as their charges were.

"Again, Maurice?" Mr. Sterril had sighed.

_Again_. That single word struck Sam and Reggie, hard, and neither of them would forget the dejected, resigned exhaustion in Twister's eyes, as he bowed his head under this admonishment, as if he were somehow to blame for being attacked. The boys who had hurt him were punished, of course – an action that did absolutely nothing, the way most school punishments do. And in the meantime, Twister continued being the victim of all manner of bullying.

Reggie and Sam had tried to sit down with Twister, and talk to him about it, only to find him bristling and uncommunicative; he was embarrassed and ashamed, to have been seen like that by his friends, and wished to simply avoid acknowledging it. It had taken Otto's help to finally pry explanations out of him.

He'd confessed, at long last, the full meaning of that word, 'again'. He told them, in a voice barely above a whisper, that the teasing and torture had been going on since the very first week he'd set foot in high school.


	79. Chapter 78

"Twister?! Can you hear me?"

"Jesus, what the hell happened?"

"Guys, back up a little. Give him some space."

"Okay, but _what happened?_ Is he okay?"

"I think he's exhausted. Otto, go find a teacher, right now."

Twister heard all of this in one vast, confusing jumble. He blinked slowly, trying to clear the swimming haze in his vision, and he thought he could make out the shapes of people surrounding him. A few more blinks, and he found himself sitting on the grass, his back propped uncomfortably against the fence at the border of the school grounds.

Sam and Reggie were crouched next to him, each with a hand on his shoulders, while they stared at him. He could also see Trish, Sherry and Trent nearby, looking pale and afraid. Every one of them looked worried, in fact, and it took him a moment to realize it was for him that they shared this concern.

"Twist, look at me," Reggie called. "Can you speak?"

Twister gave her a dazed look. "Reg?" he slurred. "What... what's going on?"

"You collapsed, dude," Sam explained. "You okay?"

"I... I don't know," Twister answered truthfully. "I'm... I'm really tired."

"Here, why don't you lie down, alright? Let us help you."

Twister couldn't exactly object; his whole body felt weary and heavy, and he got the strangest notion that he'd been feeling this bad all day long, though he was having trouble recalling how, exactly, that day had gone. Sam and Reggie eased him over carefully, and he distantly felt them pulling his legs out. Someone approached with a balled-up hoodie, and it was placed under his head.

He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes, only to find hands prying gently at the pulse in his neck. It irritated him, but the energy he wanted, to slap away that hand, simply didn't exist.

"Twist? Open your eyes for me, please," Sam said firmly.

"I'm tired," Twister moaned.

"I know, buddy. I just wanna check on you."

Reluctantly, Twister forced his eyes open again, then had to bear things patiently, as Sam peered closely at him, then shone his pocket flashlight right into Twister's eyes. He growled at Sam, squinting, and Sam withdrew after a moment.

"You feeling any nausea at all?" Sam prompted.

"I dunno, Squid... I don't... I don't feel great."

"Do you remember what happened before this? Were you feeling dizzy?"

Twister thought back, and after clear effort, he nodded weakly.

"When's the last time you had something to eat?"

There was hesitation then, longer than the last pause. "I don't remember. I think... yesterday?"

Sam and Reggie exchanged frowns. "Twister," Reggie said, her tone bordering on scolding, "You haven't eaten anything at all today?"

"Not really."

"_Twister._"

"I'm sorry," Twister mumbled, confused and chastened under her glare. "I didn't feel good today."

"That may be so, dude, but you should have tried to eat something," Sam told him. "Your body's probably completely drained because of that."

"No... I didn't sleep, that's all."

Sam stared. "Last night? You didn't get any sleep at all?"

"No..."

"_Twister!_"

"Stop yelling at me!" Twister complained, before he regretted the effort to raise his voice. He shut his eyes again, too exhausted to care about whether Sam wanted to blind him or not. "Leave me alone..."


	80. Chapter 79

Reggie very nearly blew her chances to capture the sight before her on video. Matters were not helped by the barely-silenced giggling behind her, as Trish and Sherry watched on in glee. Carefully – _very_ slowly – Reggie eased the camcorder out of Twister's grasp, watching unblinkingly for signs that he was waking.

Twister stirred only once, but didn't wake up. Nearby, Otto and Sam also continued dozing, leaning against each other while they drooled. It was this glorious sight that Reggie hope to memorialize, that she might have excellent busting materials later on.

The moment she had it free, she raised Twister's camera, pressing record, before she slowly zoomed in on Sam and Otto. Her hands shook the shot a little, as another giggling fit threatened to burst forth, and she had to take a moment to compose herself.

She panned over to Twister, who was mumbling fitfully and turning over. Reggie zoomed a little further on him, but as she did this, she saw something in the screen that she hadn't noticed before: There were some kind of odd stains on Twister's shorts, all over his thighs. Frowning, Reggie lowered the camera and glanced up, before sneaking up for a better view.

The stains were obvious and highly visible; she just hadn't noticed them during her efforts to free the camera from Twister's hold. She wasn't sure how she had missed them, however, for they obviously didn't belong.

"Reg, what are you doing?" Sherry hissed behind her.

Trish nudged Sherry. "Maybe she's crushing on him."

"Aww! That's sweet."

"Shh!" Reggie cautioned distractedly. "There's something on his pants."

"What? Ew, Reg! I don't want to know! Is he, like, unzipped...?"

Reggie ignored this, peering more intently at the stains. Her gut was giving a severe warning, and she couldn't understand why. She knew Twister could be a messy eater – surely these were from some kind of sauce. Even as she tried to tell herself this, however, she knew it wasn't the truth. This substance was too dark, and weirdly familiar; that, and it looked like the stains soaked from inside, not out.

She shifted her gaze to Twister's face, her frown deepening. He was still restless, fretting in his sleep, and there was some feature of his senseless expression that suggested he was more than just uncomfortable – he was in pain.

"He's bleeding," Reggie blurted, coming to the startling conclusion.

"Girl, what?"

Trish and Sherry crept over, poking their heads over the back of the sofa where Twister lay. Trish matched Reggie's concerned frown, and Sherry recoiled, biting back a disgusted scoff.

"Boys," she muttered.

"Lay off him, girlfriend," Trish commented. "That's a lot of blood. Maybe he beefed it too hard or something."

"Or something," Reggie murmured, before she reached out for Twister, resting her hand on his arm, and gently shaking him. "Twist. Wake up."

He startled awake at the contact, drawing in a sharp breath. In his movement, his legs jerked, and he immediately winced, hissing through his teeth. Blinking the sleep from his eyes, he looked around, confused, then froze, as he saw three girls regarding him oddly from above.

"Oh. Hey, Reg," he yawned. "What time is it?"

"About six," Reggie answered. "Are you okay?"

Twister sat up. "Yeah, why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you're bleeding," Reggie pointed to his thighs. "What happened?"

Twister looked down at himself, then stiffened, as he saw where Reggie was indicating. He grew shifty, avoiding her eye, while a furious blush began to creep up his neck.

"Um... it's nothing," he mumbled. "Just, uh... just a scratch...?"

Trish raised an eyebrow. "Some 'scratch;, my dude. Sounds like a big fat lie to me."

"Ditto," Reggie added, pursing her lips.

"It's not a lie!" Twister protested, before cringing under their skeptical glares. "Just... don't worry about it."

"That only makes me worry more," Reggie snapped at him. "You're not okay. You look really pale, and you're obviously in pain. At least let me take a look with the first aid kit."

Twister had the decency to look sheepish. "I'll be okay, Reg," he said softly, "Promise."

Reggie nearly dropped it then, almost succumbing to the utterly pitiful, pleading look on his face, which even she would admit she had a weakness to. Her gut was still giving warning, though; it was something stemming from all her older sister instincts, which she encountered in herself every time she'd seen Otto in serious danger. She didn't want to let Twister slip away from this. Still... Twister could be extremely avoidant on certain issues, and might not ever answer her directly if she continued to interrogate him.

Thinking quickly, she made as if she were going to withdraw in resignation. As Twister relaxed, and let down his guard, she immediately lunged, grabbing the hem of his shorts on one leg. He flinched back from her, but too late; she'd already pulled the cloth up, and exposed his thigh.

Everyone went still, including Twister, and Reggie's mouth fell open in a silent, anguished gasp.

Deep, wide, long scars littered Twister's leg, all the way up from just above his knee. There were at least thirty of them that Reggie could see, lined up in neat, even rows, and the whole area was coated in congealed blood – save the areas where the wounds still wept slightly.

Reggie let go of Twister's shorts, and sat down sharply, drawing a more audible gasp this time, while Trish and Sherry both had their hands pressed over their mouths. Twister didn't look at any of them; his head was hung in shame, and he had begun visibly trembling.

"Twister," Reggie managed, after agonizing silence, "Where... where did you get these from?"

She knew the answer. They all knew. The marks on Twister's leg were something that almost every teenager had heard about, or even experienced themselves. Twister swallowed hard, struggling to control panicked breaths.

"I... I-I don't..." he shut his eyes tightly. "It's... I'm sorry," he finally blurted, his voice weak. "I'm sorry, Reg. I should... I should go."

He moved to get up, gingerly swinging his feet to the floor, but Reggie's hand flew out again, this time to stop him. She held onto his shoulder, while he sat next to her, kept in place only by some obligation to their long-standing friendship. His face, he kept turned away, although Reggie could clearly see the terrible look in his eyes.

"Twister..." she said again, before her throat closed around her words.

Abruptly, and on desperate impulse, she pulled him towards her, latching onto him with a tight hug. He resisted, initially... until a barrier collapsed within him, and he melted into the contact. He didn't hug back; was too ashamed to hug bag. But he welcomed the hold, nonetheless, still shaking from head to toe.

Trish and Sherry kept a respectful distance, and for a time, all was quiet. Sam and Otto snored on, blissfully unaware of the dire drama happening only a few feet away from them.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, Reggie drew back from Twister, though she kept a comforting arm around his shoulders; lightly, just to let him know she was there for him. He looked resigned now. Almost haggard.

"I'm sorry," he whispered again.

"Don't be," Reggie answered at once, rubbing circles on his back. "I'm the one who's sorry. I shouldn't have exposed you like that."

"Am I in trouble?"

"No. You're not in trouble. But I do think it would be a good idea to talk to someone about this."

"You're... you're not gonna tell my parents, are you?" Twister asked, growing fearful. "Mom won't understand. And Dad... he'll think I'm weak. Stupid."

"You're not stupid." Immediate disbelief appeared on Twister's face at this, and Reggie became insistent. "You're not, Twist. I know we bust on you all the time, but you can be clever, when you're allowed to think in your own way."

"Dad doesn't think so," Twister replied despondently. "He says he wishes he had a better son. A smarter son. He said... he said Lars is a punk, and that I was just born a moron, and we're both a disappointment."

Reggie's lips thinned to an angry line. "He said that to you?"

"Yeah..."

"Is that why you felt like you needed to hurt yourself?"

Twister was quiet a moment, holding his arms closer around himself in discomfort. "Maybe."

"Maybe?"

"I don't know, Reg," he sighed. "I'm... I'm really tired all the time, lately. It feels like I don't have anywhere to go anymore. Like no matter what I do, I'm gonna fail. I'm a failure. And this just proves it! Only people who are messed up in the head do stuff like this. Losers. Idiots who can't make it in life – that's me."

Reggie glanced back to her friends, in shock at just how much bitter self-depreciation she was hearing in Twister's response. Trish looked almost sad, while Sherry seemed to be suffering from some form of second-hand embarrassment, as if Twister's admission was shameful.

Hating this, Reggie returned her attention to Twister. "You're not a loser," she told him. "You're not a failure. You're _not_ stupid. Do you hear me? I don't want you to think these things about yourself."

"But I don't like me," Twister growled back, frustrated. "Why shouldn't I think that? It's the only thing I can think. And it's all true."

"No, it's not true. I think you've convinced yourself that it's true, but that doesn't make it reality, sweetie."

"Do you think I'm sick?"

"I think you're struggling," Reggie answered carefully. "And that's okay. It sucks, but it's not the end of the world. It doesn't make you a bad person, or a loser, or anything like that. It just means you need some help."

Twister frowned. "Help?"

"Yeah. Like... like a counselor, or a therapist. Someone who's good at getting people through this stuff."

"Oh..." Twister looked glum again. "A shrink."

"There's nothing wrong with that."

"But I already talked to one. I talked to the lady at school. She said I was just acting out and being childish, and that boys shouldn't be weak like that. It didn't feel good... I think she hated me. I don't wanna talk to anybody like that."

Reggie had to take a moment to just breathe, for she could not believe what she was hearing. First his father, and now a supposed professional, both berating Twister like this? It disturbed her, more so than even that first sight of his injuries. She suddenly saw that he had no idea that these kinds of responses weren't normal or appropriate; he simply assumed that _he_ was in the wrong somehow.

"Hey," Reggie said softly, "I need you to listen to me a minute, okay?"

"I'm not already listening?"

"Listen to this especially: What your dad said about you, and what that counselor told you? Those are both wrong. _Really_ wrong. That lady should lose her job for saying something like that to you, because it's not true. She hurt you."

"She's a therapist-"

"A bad therapist," Reggie corrected. "Most of them won't be like her, and they'll listen to you, and understand, without being mean to you. We just have to find you a good one."

"Will I have to stop cutting if I go see one?"

It was Reggie's turn to pause for a few moments. "I honestly don't know, Twister," she answered. "How... how often do you feel like cutting?"

"Every day."

Reggie shut her eyes, to reign in the temptation to start crying. "Do you act on that feeling every day?"

"Not all the time. But lots, yeah."

"Oh, Twister..."

He finally looked at her, desperately apologetic. "I'm sorry, Reg. I'm really sorry..."

"Hey. What did I say? You don't have to apologize," Reggie reminded him firmly. "We're gonna get you some help, Twist. You don't have to be alone."


	81. Chapter 80

"Reg..."

Reggie flapped her hand at Otto, refusing to turn around. She carried an intense look, as she took step after tediously slow step down the alley.

"Reggie. Don't. He's crazy."

"I kind of have to agree with Otto on this," Sam added nervously.

Reggie wasn't listening; didn't want to listen. The subject of her attention watched her with wide, wild eyes that only half saw her. He drew a sharp gasp on her next step, backing himself up against the dead-end wall.

"It's okay," Reggie told him softly, raising her hands. "It's alright."

"Regina!" Otto hissed. "Leave him. Come on."

"He's sick, Otto. Look at him. He needs help."

"So let him go get it on his own!"

"He's barely standing on his own feet," Sam observed quietly. "I don't think he even knows where he is right now, let alone how to get help."

"Dude, a minute ago, you were against this! Don't encourage her."

"I'm not! I just... I mean, if it were one of us, instead of him-"

Otto scowled. "He's not one of us. He doesn't have that right anymore."

"Twister," Reggie called over the argument, with determination, "Twister, just relax, okay? I'm not going to hurt you."

Twister pressed closer to the wall, breathing hard. He looked haggard and ill, his short hair plastered to his forehead with cold sweat. He shook terribly, too, gripped by a violent fever that stole most of his reason. As Reggie stopped, a few feet away, he began to whimper, terrified of her proximity, while a dark stain grew at the front of his pants. Sam and Otto ceased arguing, shocked by this development.

"Holy shit," Otto blurted, disgusted and uneasy. "He just pissed himself... what the hell kind of baby bullshit-"

"Don't. He's really scared," Reggie told him quietly. "It's not his fault."

"Reg, he fucking _peed_. You gonna wait for him to shit himself next, or what? He's insane. Insane people do that, and there's nothing you can do, so _let's go_."

"Lay off him! He doesn't know any better right now. I'm not leaving him; he could easily be hurt or killed in this state."

"Maybe we should get Raymundo," Sam said. "This is really bad..."

"Tito's on the clock," Reggie said, without glancing back. "You guys go; tell him to get here as soon as he can."

"There is no _way_ I am leaving you alone with this freak," Otto snapped.

"Dammit, Otto, just go!"

There was a hardness to Reggie's voice that made Otto's stubborn refusal halt in its tracks. He stared between Reggie and Twister, indecisive for a moment, before he shook his head, and faced Sam.

"Stay with them. _Don't_ let him hurt her."

Sam nodded, and Reggie didn't outright object, so Otto took his leave, backtracking out of the alley and sprinting at top speed towards the Shore Shack.

Reggie heard him go, and saw Twister flinch back at the abrupt motion. He began to cry, visibly confused and frightened, and even after all that had come between them before this moment, both Sam and Reggie felt hurt in their hearts for him at the sight.

"Try to get him sitting down," Sam suggested, keeping his voice low. "We don't want him collapsing, not like this."

Reggie made an attempt, inching closer, in the hopes that she'd be able to reach Twister. Twister responded with a miserable bleat, raising his arms to shield himself, as if she'd just threatened to strike him. This reaction seemed more rational than the others, for he bore marks on his body that suggested that kind of thing was exactly what had happened to him recently. It was likely a hallmark of his life confined to the streets.

Trying not to think too much about this, Reggie eventually reached him, and to her relief, he slid down the wall, sitting and curling up, with his knees pulled into his chest. Aware that she was now towering over him, Reggie dropped to a crouch beside him, presenting less of a threat. With one steady hand, she reached out to him, to rest it against the side of his face. He watched her with sick anticipation, his eyes gleaming with a look that told her he was still far from present. When her hand made contact, he jolted so hard, he knocked the back of his head against the wall.

"It's okay," Reggie soothed, wincing. "Shh. It's alright, Twist. It's me – it's Reggie. You remember me."

"R-Reggie?" Twister repeated, her name slurring badly on his tongue. "D-don't hur... hur'me."

"I won't hurt you, I promise. Just try to relax."

He stared at her, disoriented, and as panic steadily grew in him again, Reggie began to stroke back his hair, ignoring how unpleasant his sweat was on her hand. He seemed to relax more under this touch, so she didn't dare stop, no matter how uncomfortable she felt.

"There you go," she went on, seeing more of the tension leave him. "It's okay, Twister."

"Wh-where's Mom? Mmm... m-my head hurts."

That earlier pain in Reggie's heart surged again. "She's... she's not here, sweetie. It's just me and Sammy."

"S-Sammy?" a pinpoint of recognition broke through his fever. "I-I... I remember. Sammy... th-they hate... hate me."

"Who?" Reggie asked carefully.

"M-my friends... they're friends. They hate... hate me. D-did I do that?"

He trailed off into incoherence, his head dropping back, as his eyelids fluttered. Reggie thought she could make out a repetitive apology on his lips, though in reality, it was difficult to tell, when he was under this much influence from his fever.

Even if she hadn't seen it before, Reggie knew, from the raging heat she could feel in his forehead, that Twister's illness was close to dangerous levels. She wondered about possibly of calling him an ambulance, but before she could consult Sam on this, Otto made his return.

To her surprise, he trailed not Tito, but Noelani. The Rockets' stepmother looked positively alarmed as she shot around into the alley – an affliction that only grew worse as she laid eyes on Twister. She ground to a momentary halt, shocked and paling, and Sam took the opportunity to intercept her before she could rush on.

"He's extremely delirious," he said quickly. "He only just let Reg come close. Please, be careful. If he panics too much in his state, there's a possibility he could get a lot worse from the stress."

"How long has he been here?" Noelani asked. "Do you know?"

"No... we only came up on him about ten minutes ago."

Noelani nodded. "Alright... Reggie, honey, I'm coming over. Try to keep him calm."

Reggie looked back, just for a moment, to confirm Noelani's statement and position. When she did, she suddenly felt Twister grab at and push her hand away from himself. There was no strength in this instinctive response, and when she turned her attention back to him, his arm fell limply. He began shaking his head, side to side, like he was trying to get something off of his face.

"I don't wanna..." he mumbled. "I-I d... don't..."

"Hey, it's okay. It's only Noelani. You remember her. She's here to help."

"Don't... don't hit m-me..."

"Easy, Twister," Noelani called to him, drawing close and crouching next to Reggie. "You're safe. Nobody's going to hit you."

Twister couldn't understand, if he even heard the words at all. He began sobbing, and that uncoordinated motion of his head became thrashing, as he raised his arms, both to defend and swat at something that wasn't there.


End file.
